THE  SCRIBNER  SERIES  OP 

MODERN    POETS 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 
HENRY  VAN  DYKE 
WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 
SIDNEY  LANIER 
EUGENE  FIELD 
GEORGE  MEREDITH 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 
H.  C.  BUNNER 

Each  complete  in  one  volume.  With  portrait. 

8vo.    Cloth,  $2.00  net.    Half  Calf,  $4.25 

net.    Half  Morocco,  $4.50  net 


THE  POEMS    OF 
H.  C.  BUNNER 


THE    POEMS    OF 
H.    C.    RUNNER 


A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread,  and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  ! 

—  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


NEW  EDITION 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1917 


Copyright,  1884,  1892,  1896,  1899,  1917, 

BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright,  1912,  by 

A.  L.  BUNNER 


INTRODUCTION 

H.  C.  Bunner  —  for  such  was  the  signature  Henry 
Cuyler  Bunner  chose  to  employ  both  in  public  and  in 
private  —  was  born  at  Oswego,  N.  Y.,  August  3,  1855, 
and  he  died  at  Nutley,  N.  J.,  May  n,  1896.  His  life 
was  spent  in  the  city  of  New  York  or  in  its  immediate 
vicinity.  Here  he  went  to  school;  here  he  prepared  for 
Columbia  College,  which  he  was  regretfully  unable  to 
enter;  here  he  worked  for  a  while  in  a  mercantile  office; 
and  here  at  last  he  was  able  to  adopt  the  profession 
of  letters.  Here  he  wrote  plays  and  stories  and  verses; 
and  here  he  was  for  nearly  a  score  of  years  the  editor 
of  Puck,  the  first  comic  journal  to  establish  itself  in 
America. 

His  work  as  a  political  journalist  was  as  different  as 
possible  from  most  work  done  in  that  thorny  field;  it 
was  vigorous  but  never  violent.  He  sought  to  con 
vince  by  sheer  force  of  argument,  and  he  tried  always 
to  be  fair  toward  his  opponents.  But  interest  in  the 
work  of  the  journalist  fades  in  a  day  or  a  week,  or  a 
month  at  most;  while  the  story-teller  and  the  poet  are 
more  fortunate,  and  their  work  may  survive  for  a  year 
or  a  decade,  or  a  century  if  a  single  story,  however 
brief,  or  a  single  lyric,  however  slight,  has  found  a 
lodging  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  It  is  perhaps  as  a 
poet  that  the  author  of  "Airs  from  Arcady"  is  likely 
longest  to  be  remembered;  and  it  is  as  a  poet  that  he 

v 


3G7945 


INTRODUCTION 

would  have  chosen  to  be  cherished  in  men's  memories. 
And  his  verse  met  with  the  same  good  fortune  that 
befell  his  fiction;  it  pleased  both  the  critical  and  the 
uncritical.  It  has  the  form,  the  finish,  the  flavor  of 
scholarship  that  the  cultivated  recognize  and  relish; 
and  it  has  also  the  freshness,  the  spontaneity,  the 
heartiness,  and  the  human  sympathy  wanting  which 
no  poetry  has  ever  been  welcome  outside  the  narrow 
circle  of  the  dilettanti. 

In  the  present  volume  are  included  the  contents  of 
the  two  books  of  verse  he  published  during  his  lifetime, 
"Airs  from  Arcady"  in  1884,  and  "Rowen"  in  1892, 
and  also  a  selection  from  the  "Ballads  of  the  Town" 
(which  he  had  been  contributing  to  Puck  for  half-a- 
dozen  years),  together  with  a  few  of  his  later  lyrics  and 
the  virile  and  resonant  lines  read  before  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac  at  New  London  in  1895. 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION v 

AIRS   FROM   ARCADY  AND   ELSEWHERE 

DEDICATION— To  B.  M 3 

ARCADIA 

THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY 7 

O  HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS  HILL n 

DAPHNIS 12 

THE  HOUR  OF  SHADOWS 14 

ROBIN'S  SONG 15 

A  LOST  CHILD 17 

PHILISTIA 

DA  CAPO 21 

GONE 23 

JUST  A  LOVE-LETTER 24 

SHE  WAS  A  BEAUTY 28 

CANDOR 29 

"ACCEPTED" 31 

BOHEMIA 

A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE 35 

POETRY  AND  THE  POET      . 36 

YES? 37 

A  POEM  IN  THE  PROGRAMME 39 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BETROTHED 40 

DEAD  IN  BOHEMIA  —  IRWIN  RUSSELL 44 

ELSEWHERE 

HOLIDAY  HOME 47 

FORFEITS 48 

IN  SCHOOL  HOURS 49 

THE  WAIL  OF  THE  " PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED "     ...  52 

A  CAMPAIGN  TORCH 54 

HOME,  SWEET  HOME,  WITH  VARIATIONS.    1 56 

II.  —  SWINBURNE 57 

III.  —  BRET  HARTE  ...........  59 

IV.  —  HORACE  —  AUSTIN  DOBSON 61 

V.  —  GOLDSMITH  —  POPE 62 

VI.  —  WALT  WHITMAN 63 

ULTIMA  THULE 

FORTY 71 

STRONG  AS  DEATH 74 

DEAF 75 

LES  MORTS  VONT  VITE 76 

DISASTER 77 

SEPTEMBER 78 

THEN 79 

THE  APPEAL  TO  HAROLD 80 

To  A  DEAD  WOMAN     . 82 

THE  OLD  FLAG  .     . 83 

FROM  A  COUNTING-HOUSE 85 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  A  HYACINTH  PLUCKED  FOR  DECORATION  DAY  ...  86 

LONGFELLOW 87 

FOR  THE  FIRST  PAGE  OF  THE  ALBUM 88 

FAREWELL  TO  SALVINI 89 

ON  READING  A  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK 90 

FEMININE 91 

REDEMPTION 92 

TRIUMPH 93 

To  HER 95 

ROWEN 

DEDICATION  —  To  A.  L.  B 99 

AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  BALL  —  1889 103 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  CALLERS 115 

MAY-BLOOM 117 

THE  LINNET 118 

HEAVE  Ho! 119 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED  LOVE-SONG 120 

A  LOOK  BACK 122 

PRUDENCE,  SPINNING 124 

THE  LIGHT 126 

GRANT 129 

"LET  Us  HAVE  PEACE" 131 

THE  BATTLE  OF  APIA  BAY 133 

WILHELM  I.,  EMPEROR  OF  GERMANY 135 

GENERAL  SHERMAN 138 

LEOPOLD  DAMROSCH 14° 

J.  B 141 

MY  SHAKSPERE 145 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ON  SEEING  MAURICE  LELOIR'S  ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  STERNE'S 

"SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY" 148 

To  A  READER  OF  THE  XXIsT  CENTURY 149 

FOR  AN  OLD  POET 152 

WILKIE  COLLINS 153 

FOR  C.  J.  T.,  CONCERNING  A.  D. 154 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 155 

AN  EPISTLE -. 156 

ON  READING  CERTAIN  PUBLISHED  LETTERS  OF  W.  M.  T.  159 

CHAKEY  EINSTEIN  .  163 

A  FABLE  FOR  RULERS .     .      .  168 

BISMARCK  SOLILOQUIZES 169 

IMITATION 172 

"MAGDALENA"  . 173 

"ONE,  Two,  THREE!" 179 

THE  LITTLE  SHOP   ...... 181 

GRANDFATHER  WATTS'S  PRIVATE  FOURTH 183 

To  MY  DAUGHTER 186 

SCHUBERT'S  KINDER-SCENEN 188 

BALLADS   OF  THE  TOWN   AND   LATER  LYRICS 

BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

I. — THE  MAID  OF  MURRAY  HILL 193 

II. — THE  FRIVOLOUS  GIRL 195 

III. — KITTY'S  SUMMERING 197 

IV. — AT  DANCING-SCHOOL 198 

V. — THEIR  WEDDING  JOURNEY — 1834 200 

VI. — To  A  JUNE  BREEZE 202 

X 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

VII.— THE  CHAPERON 2°4 

VHI. — A  SONG  or  BEDFORD  STREET 206 

LATER  LYRICS 

THE  RED  Box  AT  VESEY  STREET 211 

SHRIVEN,  A.  D.  1425 2I3 

SONG  FOR  LABOR  DAY 2I5 

"THEY  ALSO  SERVE" 2I7 

THE  QUEST 223 

UNAWARE 224 

A  MAGIC  GIFT .     .  225 

LUTETIA 22<5 

NOTES                          229 


AIRS  FROM  ARCADY 
AND  ELSEWHERE 

[1884] 


TO  BRANDER  MATTHEWS: 


BY  THE  HEARTH 

The  night  is  late;  your  fire  is  whitening  fast, 
Our  speech  has  silent  spaces,  and  is  low; 
Yet  there  is  much  to  say  before  I  go  — 

And  much  is  left  unsaid,  dear  friend,  at  last. 

Yet  something  may  be  said.     This  fading  fire 
Was  never  cold  for  me;  and  never  cold 
Has  been  the  welcoming  glance  I  knew  of  old  — 

Warm  with  a  friendship  usage  could  not  tire. 

The  kindly  hand  has  never  failed  me  yet, 
And  never  yet  has  failed  the  cheering  word; 
Nor  ever  went  Perplexity  unheard, 

But  ever  was  by  thoughtful  Counsel  met. 

The  plans  we  made,  the  hopes  we  nursed,  have  fed 
These  friendly  embers  with  a  genial  fire. 
Not  till  my  spirit  ceases  to  aspire 

Shall  their  kind  light  within  my  heart  be  dead. 

Take  these,  the  gathered  songs  of  striving  years, 
And  many  fledged  and  warmed  beside  your  hearth; 
Not  for  whatever  they  may  have  of  worth  — 

A  simpler  tie,  perchance,  my  work  endears. 

With  them  this  wish:  that  when  your  days  shall  close, 
Life,  a  well-used  and  well-contented  guest, 
May  gently  press  the  hand  I  oft  have  pressed, 

And  leave  you  by  Love's  fire  to  calm  repose. 


ARCADIA 


THE  WAY  TO  ARGADY 

Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ; 
Oh,  what  Js  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh,  what  Js  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree  — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through  — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry- wide. 
I  '11  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

7 


ARCADIA 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  I  do  not  know  — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow  — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers  — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
I  've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be  ; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  can  not  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  can  not  sing? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time  — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'T  is  strange  you  can  not  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody? 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he)  — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise  — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  Mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady  ? 

No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there  ; 

But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare  — 

No  wisdom  won  with  weariness  ; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly1  s  dress  — 
8 


ARCADIA 

No  Jame  that  wit  could  ever  win  ; 
But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 
Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 

And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise, 
But  Love,  ah,  Love !  I  have  it  not. 

There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new  — 
But  far  away,  and  half  forgot  — 

I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 
But  Love  —  I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 

We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 

And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 

All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 

Save  Love,  ah,  Love !  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way 's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare  ; 

My  true  companion 's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  Jills  the  Spring-time  air  ; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands  — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound  — 

9 


ARCADIA 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 

The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ; 
Oh,  yon 's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 


10 


O  HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS  HILL 

RONDEL 
\Dobson>s  Variation} 

O  HONEY  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste, 
Wert  here  for  the  soft  amorous  bill 

Of  Aphrodite's  courser  placed? 

Thy  musky  scent  what  virginal  chaste 
Blossom  was  ravished  to  distill, 
O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste? 

What  upturned  calyx  drank  its  fill 

When  ran  the  draught  divine  to  waste, 

That  her  white  hands  were  doomed  to  spill 
Sweet  Hebe,  fallen  and  disgraced  — 

O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste? 


II 


DAPHNIS 


ERE  the  spring  comes,  we  will  go 
Where  belated  lines  of  snow 
Lie  in  wreathlets  chilly  bright 
Round  the  wind-flowers  pink  and  white, 
Trembling  even  as  you,  my  own, 
In  my  arms  about  you  thrown; 
Where  pale  sheets  of  ice  like  glass 
Fleck  the  marshland's  greening  grass; 
Where  beneath  the  budding  trees 
Dead  leaves  wait  for  April's  breeze  — 
Chloe,  Chloe,  we  will  wander 
Hither,  thither,  here  and  yonder. 

Seeing  you,  the  jealous  Spring 
Sure  will  haste  a  laggard  wing, 

Though  the  upland  plains  are  snowy, 
Though  the  snow  is  on  the  plain  — 

Chloe,  Chloe,  Chloe,  Chloe! 
But  she  answers  not  again. 

n 

Chloe,  lo !  the  Spring  is  here, 
All  the  wintry  walks  are  clear; 
Prismy  purple  is  the  air 
Round  the  branches  brown  and  bare; 
Purple  are  the  doubtful  dyes 
Of  the  clouds  in  April's  skies  — 
12 


ARCADIA 

Come,  and  make  last  Summer  stretch 
Over  half  a  year,  and  fetch 
Smells  of  rose  and  violet 
In  the  barren  ways  to  set. 
See,  the  wood  remembering  misses 
Sweetness  of  our  last  year's  kisses. 
O'er  the  place  where  once  we  kist 
Falls  a  veil  of  rainy  mist  — 

Tangled  rain-sheets,  wreathed  and  blowy 
There  is  weeping  in  the  rain  — 

Chloe,  Chloe,  Chloe,  Chloe  / 
Ah !  she  answers  not  again  I 


THE  HOUR  OF  SHADOWS 

UPON  that  quiet  day  that  lies 

Where  forest  branches  screen  the  skies, 

The  spirit  of  the  eve  has  laid 

A  deeper  and  a  dreamier  shade; 

And  winds  that  through  the  tree-tops  blow 

Wake  not  the  silent  gloom  below. 

Only  the  sound  of  far-off  streams, 
Faint  as  our  dreams  of  childhood's  dreams, 
Wandering  in  tangled  pathways  crost, 
Like  woodland  truants  strayed  and  lost, 
Their  faint,  complaining  echoes  roam, 
Threading  the  forest  toward  their  home. 

O  brooks,  I  too  have  gone  astray, 

And  left  my  comrade  on  the  way  — 

Guide  me  through  aisles  where  soft  you  moan 

To  some  sad  spot  you  know  alone, 

Where  only  leaves  and  nestlings  stir, 

And  I  may  dream,  and  dream  of  Her. 


ROBIN'S  SONG 

Warwickshire,  16 — 

UP,  up,  my  heart !  up,  up,  my  heart, 

This  day  was  made  for  thee ! 
For  soon  the  hawthorn  spray  shall  part,, 

And  thou  a  face  shalt  see 
That  comes,  O  heart,  O  foolish  heart, 

This  way  to  gladden  thee. 

The  grass  shows  fresher  on  the  way 
That  soon  her  feet  shall  tread  — 

The  last  year's  leaflet  curled  and  gray, 
I  could  have  sworn  was  dead, 

Looks  green,  for  lying  in  the  way 
I  know  her  feet  will  tread. 

What  hand  yon  blossom  curtain  stirs, 

More  light  than  errant  air? 
I  know  the  touch  —  't  is  hers,  't  is  hers ! 

She  parts  the  thicket  there  — 
The  flowered  branch  her  coming  stirs 

Hath  perfumed  all  the  air. 

The  Springs  of  all  forgotten  years 

Are  waked  to  life  anew  — 
Up,  up,  my  eyes,  nor  fill  with  tears 

As  tender  as  the  dew  - 
I  knew  her  not  in  all  those  years; 

But  life  begins  anew. 


ARCADIA 

Up,  up,  my  heart !  up,  up,  my  heart, 

This  day  was  made  for  thee ! 
Come,  Wit,  take  on  thy  nimblest  art, 

And  win  Love's  victory  — 
What  now  ?     Where  art  thou,  coward  heart  ? 

Thy  hour  is  here  —  and  She ! 


16 


A  LOST  CHILD 

YE   CRYER 

Here  's  a  reward  for  who  'II  find  Love! 

Love  is  a-straying 

Ever  since  Maying, 
Hither  and  yon,  below,  above  ; 

All  are  seeking  Love! 

YE  HAND-BILL 

Gone  astray  —  between  the  Maying 

And  the  gathering  of  the  hay, 
LOVE,  an  urchin  ever  playing  — 

Folk  are  warned  against  his  play. 

How  may  you  know  him?     By  the  quiver, 
By  the  bow  he  's  wont  to  bear. 

First  on  your  left  there  comes  a  shiver, 
Then  a  twinge  —  the  arrow  's  there. 

By  his  eye  of  pansy  color, 

Deep  as  wounds  he  dealeth  free; 

If  its  hue  have  faded  duller, 
'T  is  not  that  he  weeps  for  me. 

By  the  smile  that  curls  his  mouthlet; 

By  the  mockery  of  his  sigh; 
By  his  breath,  a  spicy  South,  let 

Slip  his  lips  of  roses  by. 

17 


ARCADIA 

By  the  devil  in  his  dimple; 

By  his  lies  that  sound  so  true; 
By  his  shaft-sting,  that  no  simple 

Ever  culled  will  heal  for  you. 

By  his  beckonings  that  embolden; 

By  his  quick  withdrawings  then; 
By  his  flying  hair,  a  golden 

Light  to  lure  the  feet  of  men. 

By  the  breast  where  ne'er  a  hurt  '11 
Rankle  'neath  his  kerchief  hid  — 

What  ?  you  cry;  he  wore  a  kirtle  ? 
Faith !  methinks  the  rascal  did ! 

Here  's  a  reward  for  who  'II  find  Love! 
Love  is  a-straying 
Ever  since  Maying; 

Hither  and  yon,  below,  above, 
I  am  seeking  Love. 


Cryer:  H.  Bunner: 

Grub  Street: 
Cry's  Weddings: 
Buryings:  Loft 
Child*,  and  right 
cheaplie. 
Ye  IId  Kaocker. 


MASTER  CORYDON, 


y«  Finder  pray'd 
to  Bring  her  to 


Petticoat  Lane. 


18 


PHILISTIA 


DA  CAPO 

SHORT  and  sweet,  and  we  Ve  come  to  the  end  of  it 

Our  poor  little  love  lying  cold. 
Shall  no  sonnet,  then,  ever  be  penned  of  it? 

Nor  the  joys  and  pains  of  it  told? 
How  fair  was  its  face  in  the  morning, 

How  close  its  caresses  at  noon, 
How  its  evening  grew  chill  without  warning, 
Unpleasantly  soon ! 

I  can't  say  just  how  we  began  it  — 

In  a  blush,  or  a  smile,  or  a  sigh; 
Fate  took  but  an  instant  to  plan  it; 

It  needs  but  a  moment  to  die. 
Yet  —  remember  that  first  conversation, 

When  the  flowers  you  had  dropped  at  your  feet 
I  restored.     The  familiar  quotation 

Was  —  "Sweets  to  the  sweet." 

Oh,  their  delicate  perfume  has  haunted 

My  senses  a  whole  season  through. 
If  there  was  one  soft  charm  that  you  wanted 

The  violets  lent  it  to  you. 
I  whispered  you,  life  was  but  lonely: 
A  cue  which  you  graciously  took; 
And  your  eyes  learned  a  look  for  me  only  — 
A  very  nice  look. 

21 


PHILISTIA 

And  sometimes  your  hand  would  touch  my  hand, 

With  a  sweetly  particular  touch; 
You  said  many  things  in  a  sigh,  and 

Made  a  look  express  wondrously  much. 
We  smiled  for  the  mere  sake  of  smiling, 

And  laughed  for  no  reason  but  fun; 
Irrational  joys;  but  beguiling  — 
And  all  that  is  done ! 

We  were  idle,  and  played  for  a  moment 
At  a  game  that  now  neither  will  press: 

I  cared  not  to  find  out  what  "No"  meant; 
Nor  your  lips  to  grow  yielding  with  "Yes." 

Love  is  done  with  and  dead;  if  there  lingers 
A  faint  and  indefinite  ghost, 

It  is  laid  with  this  kiss  on  your  fingers  — 
A  jest  at  the  most. 

'T  is  a  commonplace,  stale  situation, 
Now  the  curtain  comes  down  from  above 

On  the  end  of  our  little  flirtation  — 
A  travesty  romance;  for  Love, 

If  he  climbed  in  disguise  to  your  lattice, 
Fell  dead  of  the  first  kisses'  pain: 

But  one  thing  is  left  us  now;  that  is  — 
Begin  it  again. 


22 


GONE 

SHE  stands  upon  the  steamer's  deck; 

The  salt  wind  stings  her  cheek,  goes  by, 
Comes  back  with  kiss  of  foamy  fleck, 

And  sets  her  jaunty  hat  awry. 

I  sit  beside  the  sea-coal  glow, 

That  with  the  night  wanes  less  and  less: 
The  room  is  dark  —  my  heart  beats  slow 

With  silence,  loss,  and  loneliness. 


JUST  A  LOVE-LETTER 

"  '  Miss  Blank  —  at  Blank.'    Jemima,  let  it  go ! " 

— Austin  Dobson 

NEW- YORK,  July  20,  1883. 
DEAR  GIRL.- 

The  town  goes  on  as  though 
It  thought  you  still  were  in  it; 
The  gilded  cage  seems  scarce  to  know 

That  it  has  lost  its  linnet; 
The  people  come,  the  people  pass; 

The  clock  keeps  on  a- ticking: 
And  through  the  basement  plots  of  grass 
Persistent  weeds  are  pricking. 

I  thought  't  would  never  come  —  the  Spring  - 

Since  you  had  left  the  City: 
But  on  the  snow-drifts  lingering 

At  last  the  skies  took  pity, 
Then  Summer's  yellow  warmed  the  sun, 

Daily  decreased  in  distance  — 
I  really  don't  know  how  't  was  done 

Without  your  kind  assistance. 

Aunt  Van,  of  course,  still  holds  the  fort: 

I  Ve  paid  the  call  of  duty ; 
She  gave  me  one  small  glass  of  port  — 

'T  was  '34  and  fruity. 
24 


PHILISTIA 

The  furniture  was  draped  in  gloom 

Of  linen  brown  and  wrinkled; 
I  smelt  in  spots  about  the  room 

The  pungent  camphor  sprinkled. 

I  sat  upon  the  sofa,  where 

You  sat  and  dropped  your  thimble  — 
You  know  —  you  said  you  did  n't  care; 

But  I  was  nobly  nimble. 
On  hands  and  knees  I  dropped,  and  tried 

To  —  well,  I  tried  to  miss  it: 
You  slipped  your  hand  down  by  your  side 

You  knew  I  meant  to  kiss  it ! 

Aunt  Van,  I  fear  we  put  to  shame 

Propriety  and  precision: 
But,  praised  be  Love,  that  kiss  just  came 

Beyond  your  line  of  vision. 
Dear  maiden  aunt !   the  kiss,  more  sweet 

Because  't  is  surreptitious, 
You  never  stretched  a  hand  to  meet, 

So  dimpled,  dear,  delicious. 

I  sought  the  Park  last  Saturday; 

I  found  the  Drive  deserted; 
The  water-trough  beside  the  way 

Sad  and  superfluous  spurted. 
I  stood  where  Humboldt  guards  the  gate 

Bronze,  bumptious,  stained  and  streaky  - 
There  sat  a  sparrow  on  his  pate, 

A  sparrow  chirp  and  cheeky. 

25 


PHILISTIA 

Ten  months  ago !   ten  months  ago !  — 

It  seems  a  happy  second, 
Against  a  life-time  lone  and  slow, 

By  Love's  wild  time-piece  reckoned  — 
You  smiled,  by  Aunt's  protecting  side, 

Where  thick  the  drags  were  massing, 
On  one  young  man  who  did  n't  ride, 

But  stood  and  watched  you  passing. 

I  haunt  PursselPs  —  to  his  amaze  — 

Not  that  I  care  to  eat  there; 
But  for  the  dear  clandestine  days 

When  we  two  had  to  meet  there. 
Oh,  blessed  is  that  baker's  bake, 

Past  cavil  and  past  question; 
I  ate  a  bun  for  your  sweet  sake, 

And  Memory  helped  Digestion. 

The  Norths  are  at  their  Newport  ranch; 

Van  Brunt  has  gone  to  Venice; 
Loomis  invites  me  to  the  Branch, 

And  lures  me  with  lawn-tennis. 
0  bustling  barracks  by  the  sea ! 

0  spiles,  canals,  and  islands ! 
Your  varied  charms  are  naught  to  me  — 

My  heart  is  in  the  Highlands ! 

My  paper  trembles  in  the  breeze 

That  all  too  faintly  flutters 
Among  the  dusty  city  trees, 

And  through  my  half -closed  shutters: 
26 


PHILISTIA 

A  northern  captive  in  the  town, 

Its  native  vigor  deadened, 
I  hope  that,  as  it  wandered  down, 

Your  dear  pale  cheek  it  reddened. 

I  '11  write  no  more.    A  vis-d-vis 

In  halcyon  vacation 
Will  sure  afford  a  much  more  free 

Mode  of  communication; 
I  'm  tantalized  and  cribbed  and  checked 

In  making  love  by  letter: 
I  know  a  style  more  brief,  direct  — 

And  generally  better ! 


27 


SHE  WAS  A  BEAUTY 

RONDEL 

SHE  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 
When  Madison  was  President: 

And  quite  coquettish  in  her  ways  — 
On  conquests  of  the  heart  intent. 

Grandpapa,  on  his  right  knee  bent, 
Wooed  her  in  stiff,  old-fashioned  phrase  — 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 

And  when  your  roses  where  hers  went 
Shall  go,  my  Rose,  who  date  from  Hayes, 

I  hope  you  '11  wear  her  sweet  content 
Of  whom  tradition  lightly  says: 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 


28 


CANDOR 

OCTOBER  —  A   WOOD 

"I  KNOW  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said, 

And  she  stood  up  looking  uncommonly  tall; 

"You  are  going  to  speak  of  the  hectic  Fall, 
And  say  you  're  sorry  the  summer's  dead. 

And  no  other  summer  was  like  it,  you  know, 

And  can  I  imagine  what  made  it  so? 
Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said; 

"You  are  going  to  ask  if  I  forget 

That  day  in  June  when  the  woods  were  wet, 
And  you  carried  me"  —  here  she  dropped  her  head  — 

"Over  the  creek;  you  are  going  to  say, 

Do  I  remember  that  horrid  day. 
Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said; 
"You  are  going  to  say  that  since  that  time 
You  have  rather  tended  to  run  to  rhyme, 
And"   -her  clear  glance  fell  and  her  cheek  grew 

red- 

"And  have  I  noticed  your  tone  was  queer?  - 
Why,  everybody  has  seen  it  here !  — 
Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

29 


PHILISTIA 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  I  said; 

"You  're  going  to  say  you  've  been  much  annoyed, 
And  I  'm  short  of  tact  —  you  will  say  devoid  — 

And  I  'm  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  call  me  Ted, 
And  I  bear  abuse  like  a  dear  old  lamb, 
And  you  '11  have  me,  anyway,  just  as  I  am. 

Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"  , 

"Ye-es,"  she  said. 


"ACCEPTED" 

WE  were  walking  home  from  meeting,  in  the  calm  old 

country  street, 
Where  only  a  glimmer  of  moonlight  through  the 

arch  of  the  elms  came  down, 
And  wakened  the  twinkling  shadows  that  played  with 

her  little  feet  — 

Played  hide-and-seek  with  the  little  feet  that  peeped 
from  beneath  her  gown. 

There  are  things  that  a  girl  should  n't  think,  and  cer 
tainly  should  n't  say  — 
But  when  she  says  them  to  you,  the  difference  it 

makes  is  queer. 
And  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  sleeve  seemed  to 

ask,  in  a  soft,  shy  way: 
"  Can't  you  put  your  arm  around  me,  or  is  n't  it 

dark  enough  here?" 
A  man  does  n't  let  that  chance  slip  by  him  beyond 

recall; 

But  I  felt  that  it  would  n't  do,  after  much  con 
sidering  — 
Her  parents  were  just  ahead,  which  did  n't  concern  me 

at  all  - 

But  her  younger  brother  behind  us  —  ah,  that  was 
a  different  thing ! 

31 


PHILISTIA 

We  reached  the  dear  old  homestead  the  moon  made 

tenderly  white, 
And  stood  on  the  broad  front  porch,  and  all  of  them 

lingered  to  chat 
Of  how  the  soprano  had  sung  and  the  parson  had 

preached  that  night, 

And  how  the  widow  was  out  in  another  scandalous 
hat. 

i 

A  look  of  appeal  from  me,  and  a  wonderful  glance 

from  her, 
And  we  slipped  away  from  the  crowd,  unnoticed 

and  swift  and  still  — 
I  think  't  was  the  flower-beds  I  crossed;  but  I  did  n't 

care  if  it  were  — 

And  she  went  back  through  the  house,  and  we  met 
at  the  window-sill. 

At  the  window  around  the  corner,  with  never  a  soul 

to  see !  - 
And  I  stood  on  the  grass  below,  and  she  bent  down 

from  above, 
And  the  honeysuckles  were  round  us  as  she  stretched 

her  arms  to  me, 

And  our  lips  met  there  in  a  new,  new  kiss  —  our 
betrothal  gift  from  Love. 


BOHEMIA 


A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE 

TRIOLET 

A  PITCHER  of  mignonette, 

In  a  tenement's  highest  casement: 
Queer  sort  of  flower-pot  —  yet 
That  pitcher  of  mignonette 
Is  a  garden  in  heaven  set, 

To  the  little  sick  child  in  the  basement 
The  pitcher  of  mignonette, 

In  the  tenement's  highest  casement. 


35 


POETRY  AND  THE  POET 

[A  SONNET] 

(Found  on  the  Poet's  desk) 
WEARY,  I  open  wide  the  antique  pane 
I  ope  to  the  air 
I  ope  to 
I  open  to  the  air  the  antique  pane 

And  gaze  <  >  the  thrift-sown  fields  of 

L  across      J 

wheat,  [commonplace?] 
A-shimmering  green  in  breezes  born  of  heat; 
And  lo ! 

And  high 

(  ap   ^ 
And  my  soul's  eyes  behold  <     '     >  billowy  main 

Whose  further  shore  is  Greece  strain 

again 

vain 

[Arcadia  —  mythological  allusion. —  Mem. :  Lempriere.] 

I  see  thee,  Atalanta,  vestal  fleet, 
And  look !   with  doves  low-fluttering  round  her  feet, 

~  ,,          .,          ,   ,,         ij      /  fields  of  ?  \ 

Comes  Venus  through  the  golden  <  .  >  gram 

^  bowing     J 

(Heard  by  the  Poet's  neighbor.) 
Venus  be  bothered  —  it 's  Virginia  Dix ! 

(Found  on  the  Poet's  door.) 


Out  on  important  business  —  back  at  6. 


YES? 

Is  it  true,  then,  my  girl,  that  you  mean  it  — 

The  word  spoken  yesterday  night? 
Does  that  hour  seem  so  sweet  now  between  it 

And  this  has  come  day's  sober  light? 
Have  you  woke  from  a  moment  of  rapture 

To  remember,  regret  and  repent, 
And  to  hate,  perchance,  him  who  has  trapped  your 

Unthinking  consent? 

Who  was  he,  last  evening  —  this  fellow 

Whose  audacity  lent  him  a  charm? 
Have  you  promised  to  wed  Pulchinello? 

For  life  taken  Figaro's  arm? 
Will  you  have  the  Court  fool  of  the  papers  — 

The  clown  in  the  journalists'  ring, 
Who  earns  his  scant  bread  by  his  capers, 

To  be  your  heart's  king? 

When  we  met  quite  by  chance  at  the  theater, 

And  I  saw  you  home  under  the  moon, 
I  'd  no  thought,  love,  that  mischief  would  be  at  her 

Tricks  with  my  tongue  quite  so  soon; 
That  I  should  forget  fate  and  fortune 

Make  a  difference  'twixt  Sevres  and  delf  — 
That  I  'd  have  the  calm  nerve  to  importune 

You,  sweet,  for  yourself. 

37 


BOHEMIA 

It 's  appalling,  by  Jove,  the  audacious 

Effrontery  of  that  request ! 
But  you  —  you  grew  suddenly  gracious, 

And  hid  your  sweet  face  on  my  breast. 
Why  you  did  it  I  cannot  conjecture: 

I  surprised  you,  poor  child,  I  dare  say, 
Or  perhaps  —  does  the  moonlight  affect  your 

Head  often  that  way 
******* 

You  're  released !    With  some  wooer  replace  me 

More  worthy  to  be  your  life's  light; 
From  the  tablet  of  memory  efface  me, 

If  you  don't  mean  your  Yes  of  last  night. 
But  —  unless  you  are  anxious  to  see  me  a 

Wreck  of  the  pipe  and  the  cup 
In  my  birthplace  and  grave-yard,  Bohemia  — 

Love,  don't  give  me  up ! 


A  POEM  IN  THE  PROGRAMME 

A  THOUSAND  fans  are  fretting  the  hot  air; 

Soft  swells  the  music  of  the  interlude 

Above  the  murmurous  hum  of  talk  subdued; 
But  from  the  noise  withdrawn  and  from  the  glare, 
Deep  in  the  shadowy  box  your  coiled  hair 

Gleams  golden-bright,  with  diamonds  bedewed; 

Your  head  is  bent;  I  know  your  dark  eyes  brood 
On  the  poor  sheet  of  paper  you  hold  there, 
That  quotes  my  verses  —  and  I  see  no  more 

That  bald-head  Plutus  by  your  side. 

The  seas 

Sound  in  my  ears;  I  hear  the  rustling  pines; 
Catch  the  low  lisp  of  billows  on  the  shore 

Where  once  I  lay  in  Knickerbockered  ease 
And  read  to  you  those  then  unprinted  lines. 


39 


BETROTHED 

HE   SPEAKS 

IF  when  the  wild  and  wintry  weather 

Moans  baffled  round  your  warm  home  nest, 

And  swoops  to  pluck  the  light  foam-feather 
From  off  the  broad  bay's  heaving  breast; 

If  then  your  fancy  dim  and  dreamy 
One  careless  moment  floats  to  me, 

I  hope,  my  sweet,  you  may  not  see  me 
As  others  see. 

Amid  the  crowd  that  glooms  and  glances  — 

A  silk  sea,  islanded  with  black, 
And  vexed  with  local  storms  of  dances  — 

I,  making  slow  a  sinuous  track, 
Bow,  to  the  right,  to  Fan  or  Florry, 

Nod,  to  the  left,  to  Nell.     And  she 
Upon  my  arm,  I  should  be  sorry 
You  knew  knew  me. 

The  band  above  rolls  rhythmic  thunder 

Down  on  the  whirl  and  glare  below; 
The  dusty  pine-floor  pulses  under 

The  feet  that  balance  to  and  fro. 
Oh !   dream  of  me  that  ills  afflict  me; 

Or  dream  about  me  not  at  all; 
But  do  not  let  your  dream  depict  me 
As  at  the  ball. 
40 


BOHEMIA 

With  eyes  that  glisten,  hands  that  tremble; 

With  breasts  that  heave  and  cheeks  that  burn, 
The  gaudy  groups  disperse,  assemble, 

And  melt  in  other  groups  in  turn. 
Through  flush  of  paint  and  frost  of  powder, 

I  see  a  face  or  two  I  've  known, 
That,  rougeless,  donned  a  carmine  prouder 
For  me  alone. 

If  this  were  all,  or  worst,  the  whirling 

Among  the  other  fools  a  fool  — 
But  when  I  stand  my  whiskers  twirling 

Off  by  the  lobby  window  cool  — 
And  watch  the  dance  where  death's-heads  grin  to 

Death's-heads,  bemasked,  beflowered  in  vain; 
See  all  —  and  then  step  reckless  into 
That  dance  again ! 

It  were  not  sin  to  sin  unthinking  — 

The  drunken  sense  shall  shrive  the  soul; 

But  when,  withdrawing  from  the  drinking, 
I  stand  with  cursed  self-control  - 

Ah,  then,  forgive  me  then,  my  pure  one ! 
Poor,  pettier  deeds  themselves  defend; 

For  time  and  crime  combine  to  lure  one  — 
And  there  's  an  end. 

But,  with  hard  eyes  that  plead  no  error, 
To  see  my  Life,  sharp- waked  from  rest  — 

And  then  to  lull  the  painted  terror 
To  smirking  slumber  on  my  breast: 

41 


BOHEMIA 

To  see,  beneath  the  rose  and  lily, 

The  black-rimmed  eye,  the  sallow  skin, 
As  clear  as  if  even  now  the  chilly 
Gray  dawn  crept  in. 

Forgive  me  that !  —  Who  touched  my  shoulder  ? 

Oh,  it  was  you,  you  ivory  fan? 
Dark  domino,  with  eyes  no  bolder 

Than  should  belong,  by  rights,  to  Nan. 
What 's  that?    Aha,  you  Ve  caught  me  moping? 

Fine  me  a  bottle  for  the  wrong  — 
A  quart  with  silvered  shoulders  sloping  — 

Well,  come  along ! 
******* 

The  whirl  has  changed  to  scattered  revels, 
The  glare  to  single  scattered  lights; 

A  hot  and  fluctuant  draught  dishevels 
The  hair  of  Nancy  Late-o'-Nights. 

Her  eyes  are  largish  for  their  sockets; 
Champagney  spray  her  satin  flecks; 

And  I  am  feeling  in  my  pockets 
For  hat-room  checks. 

But,  you,  my  fair,  unconscious  sleeping, 

No  dream  of  day  disturbs  you  yet; 
The  pale-faced  star  of  love  is  peeping 

Through  morning  skies  all  misty  wet. 
I  leave  my  partner,  flushed  and  scornful 

Of  etiquette,  to  seek  the  floor, 
7  fly,  about  that  hour  most  mournful 
Of  twenty-four. 
42 


BOHEMIA 

When  dark  has  lulled  the  day  benighted 
Till  dawn  reveals  the  last  caress, 

And  half  apart  they  draw,  affrighted 
Each  at  the  other's  ghastliness. 

When  Sleep,  with  face  as  blind  and  ashen 
As  Death's,  turns  restlessly  in  fear, 

As  knowing,  in  some  subtle  fashion, 
That  morn  is  near. 

With  crisping  snow  the  ground  is  whitened; 

The  horses  doze;  the  hackmen  yawn, 
Wearily  waking;  reins  are  tightened, 

The  air  is  raw  with  coming  dawn. 
From  the  high  porch  I  raise  to  Venus 

(Whose  pallid  radiance  still  endures) 
My  curse.     The  hall-door  swings  between  us 
my  sleep  and  yours. 

A  thousand  miles,  a  thousand  ages 

Our  dawns  are  parted,  yours  and  mine. 

For  me,  by  slow  and  sickly  stages, 
The  dull  light  climbs  above  the  line. 

You  see,  if  ever  dawn,  surprising 
Your  slumber,  sets  your  spirit  free, 

Across  white  plains  a  clear  sun  rising 
Above  the  sea. 


43 


DEAD  IN  BOHEMIA 

IRWIN  RUSSELL 
Died  in  New  Orleans,  December,  1879 

SMALL  was  thy  share  of  all  this  world's  delight, 
And  scant  thy  poet's  crown  of  flowers  of  praise; 
Yet  ever  catches  quaint  of  quaint  old  days 
Thou  sang'st,  and,  singing,  kept  thy  spirit  bright 
Even  as  to  lips  the  winds  of  winter  bite 

Some  outcast  wanderer  sets  his  flute  and  plays 
Till  at  his  feet  blossom  the  icy  ways, 
And  from  the  snow-drift's  bitter  wasting  white 
He  hears  the  uprising  carol  of  the  lark, 

Soaring  from  clover  seas  with  Summer  ripe  — 

While  freeze  upon  his  cheek  glad,  foolish  tears. 
Ah !  let  us  hope  that  somewhere  in  thy  dark, 
Herrick's  full  note,  and  Suckling's  pleasant  pipe 
Are  sounding  still  their  solace  in  thine  ears. 


44 


ELSEWHERE 


HOLIDAY  HOME 

WHEN  the  Autumn  winds  nip  all  the  hill-grasses  brown, 
And  sad  the  last  breath  of  the  Summer  in  town, 
When  the  waves  have  a  chill,  with  a  spicing  of  salt, 
That  warms  the  whole  blood  like  no  mortal-brewed 

malt  - 

Then  I  slip  the  dull  burdens  of  Duty's  employ  — 
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy ! 

There  the  latch-string  is  out,  there  Js  a  hand  at  the 

door, 

There  are  kindliest  faces  so  kindly  before  — 
Ah,  the  song  takes  a  lilt,  and  the  words  trip  with  joy, 
For  New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy ! 

When  the  Winter  lies  white  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
A  sound  's  in  my  heart  that  no  storm- wind  can  drown; 
Through  the  mist  and  the  rain,  and  the  sleet  and  the 

snow, 

My  memory  murmurs  a  melody  low, 
Like  the  swing  of  a  song  through  the  brain  of  a  boy  — 
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy ! 


47 


FORFEITS 

THEY  sent  him  round  the  circle  fair, 
To  bow  before  the  prettiest  there. 
I  'm  bound  to  say  the  choice  he  made 
A  creditable  taste  displayed; 
Although  —  I  can't  say  what  it  meant  - 
The  little  maid  looked  ill-content. 

His  task  was  then  anew  begun  — 
To  kneel  before  the  wittiest  one. 
Once  more  that  little  maid  sought  he, 
And  went  him  down  upon  his  knee. 
She  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  floor  — 
I  think  she  thought  the  game  a  bore. 

He  circled  then  —  his  sweet  behest 
To  kiss  the  one  he  loved  the  best. 
For  all  she  frowned,  for  all  she  chid, 
He  kissed  that  little  maid,  he  did. 
And  then  —  though  why  I  can't  decide 
The  little  maid  looked  satisfied. 


IN  SCHOOL  HOURS 

A   REAL    ROMANCE 

You  remember  the  moments  that  come 

In  a  school-day  afternoon: 
When  the  illegitimate  hum 

Subsides  to  a  drowsy  swoon? 
When  the  smell  of  ink  and  slates 

Grows  oppressively  warm  and  thick; 
Sleep  opens  her  tempting  gates; 

And  the  clock  has  a  drowsy  tick? 

Forgetful  of  watch  and  rule, 

The  teacher  has  time  to  think 
Of  a  " recess"  in  life's  long  school; 

Of  a  time  to  "go  out  and  drink" 
At  the  spring  where  the  Muse  has  sipped, 

And  laurel  and  bay-leaf  bloom  — 
And  a  contraband  note  is  slipped, 

Meanwhile,  across  the  room. 

From  a  trembling  hand  it  flies 

Like  a  little  white  dove  of  peace; 
And  away  on  its  mission  it  hies 

In  an  "Atlas  of  Ancient  Greece." 
And  the  sender  hides  her  face; 

For  her  eyes  have  a  watery  shine, 
And  saline  deposits  trace 

The  recent  tear-drop's  line. 

49 


ELSEWHERE 

From  the  dovecote  side  it  goes 

Across  to  the  ruder  half  — 
Where  a  large  majority  shows 

A  suppressed  desire  to  laugh. 
But  the  boy  that  they  dare  not  tease 

Receives  the  crumpled  twist  — 
And  the  little  hunchback  who  sees 

Only  shakes  an  impotent  fist. 

The  boy  with  a  fair-curled  head 

Smiles  with  a  masculine  scorn, 
When  the  sad  small  note  is  read, 

With  its  straggling  script  forlorn: 
"Charley,  wy  is  it  you  wont 

Forgiv  me  laughfing  at  you? 
I  wil  kill  my  self  if  you  dont 

Honest  I  will  for  truel" 

He  responds:  He  is  pleased  to  find 

She  is  wiser,  at  any  rate. 
He  '11  be  happy  to  ride  behind 

The  hearse.     May  he  ask  the  date? 
She  reads  —  with  a  glittering  eye, 

And  the  look  of  an  angered  queen. 
This  were  tragic  at  thirty.     Why 

Is  it  trivial  at  thirteen? 

Trivial !  what  shall  eclipse 
The  pain  of  our  childish  woes? 

The  rose-bud  pales  its  lips 

When  a  very  small  zephyr  blows. 

SO 


ELSEWHERE 

You  smile,  O  Dian,  bland, 

If  Endymion's  glance  is  cold: 
But  Despair  seems  close  at  hand 

To  that  hapless  thirteen-year-old. 
****** 

To  the  teacher's  ears  like  a  dream 

The  school-room  noises  float  — 
Then  a  sudden  bustle  —  a  scream 

From  a  girl  — "She  has  cut  her  throat!" 
And  the  poor  little  hunchbacked  chap 

From  his  corner  leaps  like  a  flash  — 
Has  her  death-like  head  in  his  lap  — 

And  his  fingers  upon  the  gash. 

'T  is  not  deep.    An  "eraser"  blade 

Was  the  chosen  weapon  of  death; 
And  the  face  on  the  boy's  knee  laid 

Is  alive  with  a  fluttering  breath. 
But  faint  from  the  shock  and  fright, 

She  lies,  too  weak  to  be  stirred, 
Blood-stained,  inky  and  white, 

Pathetic,  small,  absurd. 

The  cruel  Adonis  stands 

Much  scared  and  woe-begone  now; 
Smoothing  with  nervous  hands 

The  damp  hair  off  her  brow. 
He  is  penitent,  through  and  through; 

And  she  —  she  is  satisfied. 
Knowing  my  sex  as  I  do, 

I  wish  I  could  add:  She  died. 

SI 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  "PERSONALLY 
CONDUCTED" 

CHORUS  HEARD  ON  THE  DECK  OF  A  SAGUENAY 
STEAM-BOAT 

INTEGRAL  were  we,  in  our  old  existence; 
Separate  beings,  individually: 

Now  are  our  entities  blended,  fused  and  foundered  — 
We  are  one  person. 

We  are  not  mortals,  we  are  not  celestials, 
We  are  not  birds,  the  upper  ether  cleaving, 
We  are  a  retrogression  toward  the  monad: 
We  are  Cook's  Tourists. 

All  ways  we  follow  him  who  holds  the  guide-book; 
All  things  we  look  at,  with  bedazzled  optics; 
Sad  are  our  hearts,  because  the  vulgar  rabble 
Call  us  the  Cookies. 

Happy  the  man  who,  by  his  cheerful  fireside, 
Says  to  the  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows: 
"Anna  Maria,  let  us  go  to-morrow 
Out  for  an  airing." 

Him  to  Manhattan,  or  the  Beach  of  Brighton, 
Gaily  he  hieth,  or  if,  fate-accursed, 
Lives  he  in  Boston,  still  he  may  betake  him 
Daown  to  Nantasket. 

52 


ELSEWHERE 

Happy  the  mortal  free  and  independent, 
Master  of  the  mainspring  of  his  own  volition ! 
Look  on  us  with  the  eye  of  sweet  compassion: 
We  are  Cook's  Tourists. 


53 


A  CAMPAIGN  TORCH 

I  BLAZED  like  a  meteor  through  the  night 

In  the  great  parade  of  the  great  campaign, 
A  smoke-tailed  comet  of  yellow  light 

I  wavered  and  sputtered  through  wind  and  rain. 
High  over  the  surging  crowd  I  tossed, 

A  beacon  of  battle,  flickering  free; 
And  now  the  contest  is  gained  and  lost, 

And  victor  and  victim  are  one  to  me. 

Ah,  never  again  shall  my  dinted  sides 

Ring  responsive  when,  sharp  and  clear, 
Comes  up  from  the  surging  human  tides 

The  rousing  sound  of  the  party  cheer. 
Ah,  never  again  shall  my  oily  blaze 

Blow  hither  and  thither,  and  fail  and  flare, 
When  a  thousand  masculine  marchers  raise 

Their  "TIGAH!"  rending  the  midnight  air. 

And  never  again  shall  that  bright  blaze  sink, 

When  a  sudden  silence  comes  over  the  crowd; 
When  procession  and  people,  pausing,  think, 

And  even  a  heart-beat  seems  too  loud. 
When  amid  the  revel  of  fire  and  noise 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  days  that  were  dull  and 

dread, 
And  through  these  avenues  marched  the  "Boys" 

Who  to-day  are  heroes  —  or  heroes  dead. 

54 


ELSEWHERE 

When  the  fingers  that  hold  me  grip  more  slack, 

When  the  rabble  ceases,  a  space,  to  rave; 
And  men's  minds  travel  a  score  years  back, 

And  the  faces  I  light  grow  suddenly  grave; 
When  only  the  sound  of  the  halting  feet 

Like  a  vanishing  rain-fall  patters  past, 
With  a  muffled  fall  away  down  the  street, 

And  the  thundering  music  stops  at  last; 

When  even  the  buncombe  orator,  high 

On  the  flag-draped  stand,  as  he  looks  around 
Finds  his  breath  come  short  and  his  throat  grow  dry, 

While  his  saw-edged  voice  has  a  husky  sound; 
Feeling,  for  once  in  his  life,  afraid; 

Remembering  —  ay,  he  remembered  then ! 
That  statecraft  is  not  a  tricky  trade, 

That  he  deals  with  the  honor  and  hopes  of  men. 

No  more  my  spirit  of  flame  shall  thrill 
As  then:   no  more  shall  it  leap  and  play 

When  the  moment's  madness  masters  the  will, 
And  the  roaring  column  marches  away. 

******* 

No  more !    By  November's  night-winds  fanned, 

In  the  gusty  lee  of  a  Bowery  porch, 
You  may  see  me  lighting  a  pea-nut  stand  — 

The  battered  wreck  of  a  Campaign  Torch. 

November,  1880. 


55 


HOME,  SWEET   HOME,  WITH 
VARIATIONS 

BEING  SUGGESTIONS  OF  THE  VARIOUS  STYLES  IN  WHICH 

AN  OLD  THEME  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  TREATED  BY 

CERTAIN  METRICAL  COMPOSERS 

FANTASIA 

I 

THE   ORIGINAL   THEME,    AS   JOHN   HOWARD   PAYNE 
WROTE  IT: 

'MiD  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  not  met  with  else 
where. 

Home,  Home !   Sweet,  Sweet  Home ! 

There  's  no  place  like  Home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ! 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call ! 
Give  me  them  !  and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer  than  all. 

Home,  Home !   Sweet,  Sweet  Home ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home ! 

56 


ELSEWHERE 


II 

As    ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE    MIGHT    HAVE 
WRAPPED  IT  UP  IN  VARIATIONS: 

['Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  — ] 

As  sea-foam  blown  of  the  winds,  as  blossom  of  brine 

that  is  drifted 

Hither  and  yon  on  the  barren  breast  of  the  breeze, 
Though  we  wander  on  gusts  of  a  god's  breath  shaken 

and  shifted, 
The  salt  of  us  stings  and  is  sore  for  the  sobbing 

seas. 
For  home's  sake  hungry  at  heart,  we  sicken  in  pillared 

porches. 

Of  bliss  made  sick  for  a  life  that  is  barren  of  bliss, 
For  the  place  whereon  is  a  light  out  of  heaven  that 

sears  not  nor  scorches, 
Nor  elsewhere  than  this. 

[An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  — ] 

For  here  we  know  shall  no  gold  thing  glisten, 

No  bright  thing  burn,  and  no  sweet  thing  shine; 
Nor  Love  lower  never  an  ear  to  listen 
To  words  that  work  in  the  heart  like  wine. 
What  time  we  are  set  from  our  land  apart, 
For  pain  of  passion  and  hunger  of  heart, 
Though  we  walk  with  exiles  fame  faints  to  christen, 
Or  sing  at  the  Cytherean's  shrine. 

57 


ELSEWHERE 

[VARIATION:  An  exile  from  home — ] 

Whether  with  him  whose  head 
Of  gods  is  honored, 

With  song  made  splendent  in  the  sight  of  men  — 
Whose  heart  most  sweetly  stout, 
From  ravished  France  cast  out, 
Being  firstly  hers,  was  hers  most  wholly  then  — 
Or  where  on  shining  seas  like  wine 
The  dove's  wings  draw  the  drooping  Erycine. 

[Give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  — ] 

For  Joy  finds  Love  grow  bitter, 
And  spreads  his  wings  to  quit  her, 
At  thought  of  birds  that  twitter 
Beneath  the  roof- tree's  straw  — 

Of  birds  that  come  for  calling, 
No  fear  or  fright  appalling, 
When  dews  of  dusk  are  falling, 
Or  daylight's  draperies  draw. 

[Give  me  them,  and  the  peace  of  mind  — ] 

Give  me  these  things  then  back,  though  the  giving 

Be  at  cost  of  earth's  garner  of  gold; 
There  is  no  life  without  these  worth  living, 

No  treasure  where  these  are  not  told. 
For  the  heart  give  the  hope  that  it  knows  not, 

Give  the  balm  for  the  burn  of  the  breast  — 
For  the  soul  and  the  mind  that  repose  not, 

O,  give  us  a  rest ! 

58 


ELSEWHERE 


III 

As  MR.  FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE  MIGHT  HAVE  WOVEN 
IT  INTO  A  TOUCHING  TALE  OF  A  WESTERN  GEN 
TLEMAN  IN  A  RED  SHIRT: 

BROWN  o'  San  Juan, 

Stranger,  I  'm  Brown. 
Come  up  this  mornin'  from  'Frisco  — 

Be'n  a-saltin'  my  specie-stacks  down. 

Be'n  a-knockin'  around, 

Fer  a  man  from  San  Juan, 
Putty  consid'able  frequent  — 

Jes'  catch  onter  that  streak  o'  the  dawn ! 

Right  thar  lies  my  home  — 

Right  thar  in  the  red  - 
I  could  slop  over,  stranger,  in  po'try 

Would  spread  out  old  Shakspoke  cold  dead. 

Stranger,  you  freeze  to  this:  there  ain't  no  kinder  gin- 
palace, 

Nor  no  variety-show  lays  over  a  man's  own  rancho. 

Maybe  it  hain't  no  style,  but  the  Queen  in  the  Tower 
o'  London 

Ain't  got  naathin'  I  'd  swop  for  that  house  over  thar 
on  the  hill-side. 

Thar  is  my  ole  gal,  'n'  the  kids,  'n'  the  rest  oj  my 
live-stock; 

59 


ELSEWHERE 

Thar  my  Remington  hangs,  and  thai  there  's  a  griddle- 
cake  br'ilin'  — 

For  the  two  of  us,  pard  —  and  thar,  I  allow,  the 
heavens 

Smile  more  friendly-like  than  on  any  other  locality. 

Stranger,  nowhere  else  I  don't  take  no  satisfaction. 
Gimme  my   ranch,    'n'    them   friendly   old   Shanghai 

chickens  — 
I  brung  the  original  pair  f'm  the  States  in  eighteen- 

'n'-fif  ty  - 
Gimme  them  and  the  feelin'  of  solid  domestic  comfort. 

Yer  parding,  young  man  — 

But  this  landscape  a  kind 
Er  flickers  —  I  'low  'twuz  the  po'try  — 

I  thought  thet  my  eyes  bed  gone  blind. 
****** 

Take  that  pop  from  my  belt ! 

Hi,  thar !  —  gimme  yer  han'  — 
Or  I  '11  kill  myself  —  Lizzie  !  —  she  's  left  me  — 

Gone  of  with  a  pur  tier  man  I 

Thar,  I  '11  quit  —  the  ole  gal 

An'  the  kids  —  run  away ! 
I  be  derned !    Howsomever,  come  in,  pard  — 

The  griddle-cake's  thar,  anyway. 


60 


ELSEWHERE 


IV 

As  AUSTIN  DOBSON  MIGHT  HAVE  TRANSLATED  IT 
FROM  HORACE,  IF  IT  HAD  EVER  OCCURRED  TO 
HORACE  TO  WRITE  IT: 

RONDEAU 

Palatiis  in  remotis  voluptates 
Si  quaeris  .  .  . 

— FLACCUS,  Q.  HORATIUS,  Carmina,  Lib.  V:  i. 

AT  home  alone,  O  Nomades, 
Although  Maecenas'  marble  frieze 

Stand  not  between  you  and  the  sky, 

Nor  Persian  luxury  supply 
Its  rosy  surfeit,  find  ye  ease. 

Tempt  not  the  far  ^F-gean  breeze; 
With  home-made  wine  and  books  that  please, 
To  duns  and  bores  the  door  deny 

At  home,  alone. 

Strange  joys  may  lure.     Your  deities 
Smile  here  alone.     Oh,  give  me  these: 
Low  eaves,  where  birds  familiar  fly, 
And  peace  of  mind,  and,  fluttering  by, 
My  Lydia's  graceful  draperies, 

At  home,  alone. 


61 


ELSEWHERE 


AS  IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  CONSTRUCTED  IN  1744, 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  AT  19,  WRITING  THE  FIRST 
STANZA,  AND  ALEXANDER  POPE,  AT  52,  THE 
SECOND : 

HOME  !   at  the  word,  what  blissful  visions  rise; 
Lift  us  from  earth,  and  draw  toward  the  skies ! 
'Mid  mirag'd  towers,  or  meretricious  joys, 
Although  we  roam,  one  thought  the  mind  employs: 
Or  lowly  hut,  good  friend,  or  loftiest  dome, 
Earth  knows  no  spot  so  holy  as  our  Home. 
There,  where  affection  warms  the  father's  breast, 
There  is  the  spot  of  heav'n  most  surely  blest. 
Howe'er  we  search,  though  wandering  with  the  wind 
Through  frigid  Zembla,  or  the  heats  of  Ind, 
Not  elsewhere  may  we  seek,  nor  elsewhere  know, 
The  light  of  heav'n  upon  our  dark  below. 

When  from  our  dearest  hope  and  haven  reft, 
Delight  nor  dazzles,  nor  is  luxury  left, 
We  long,  obedient  to  our  nature's  law, 
To  see  again  our  hovel  thatched  with  straw: 
See  birds  that  know  our  avenaceous  store 
Stoop  to  our  hand,  and  thence  repleted  soar: 
But,  of  all  hopes  the  wanderer's  soul  that  share, 
His  pristine  peace  of  mind  's  his  final  prayer. 


62 


ELSEWHERE 

VI 

As    WALT    WHITMAN    MIGHT    HAVE    WRITTEN    ALL 
AROUND  IT: 


You  over  there,  young  man  with  the  guide-book,  red- 
bound,  covered  flexibly  with  red  linen, 

Come  here,  I  want  to  talk  with  you;  I,  Walt,  the 
Manhattanese,  citizen  of  these  States,  call  you. 

Yes,  and  the  courier,  too,  smirking,  smug-mouthed, 
with  oil'd  hair;  a  garlicky  look  about  him  generally; 
him,  too,  I  take  in,  just  as  I  would  a  coyote,  or  a 
king,  or  a  toad-stool,  or  a  ham-sandwich,  or  any 
thing  or  anybody  else  in  the  world. 

Where  are  you  going? 

You  want  to  see  Paris,  to  eat  truffles,  to  have  a  good 
time;  in  Vienna,  London,  Florence,  Monaco,  to 
have  a  good  time;  you  want  to  see  Venice. 

Come  with  me.  I  will  give  you  a  good  time;  I  will 
give  you  all  the  Venice  you  want,  and  most  of  the 
Paris. 

I,  Walt,  I  call  to  you.  I  am  all  on  deck !  Come  and 
loafe  with  me !  Let  me  tote  you  around  by  your 
elbow  and  show  you  things. 

You  listen  to  my  ophicleide ! 

Home! 

Home,  I  celebrate.  I  elevate  my  fog-whistle,  inspir'd 
by  the  thought  of  home. 

Come  in !  —  take  a  front  seat;  the  jostle  of  the  crowd 
not  minding:  there  is  room  enough  for  all  of  you. 

63 


ELSEWHERE 

This  is  my  exhibition  —  it  is  the  greatest  show  on  earth 

—  there  is  no  charge  for  admission. 
All  you  have  to  pay  me  is  to  take  in  my  romanza. 


1.  The  brown-stone  house;    the  father  coming  home 
worried  from  a  bad  day's  business;    the  wife  meets 
him  in  the  marble-pav'd  vestibule;    she  throws  her 
arms  about  him;    she  presses  him  close  to  her;    she 
looks  him  full  in  the  face  with  affectionate  eyes; 
the  frown  from  his  brow  disappearing. 

Darting,  she  says,  Johnny  has  fallen  down  and  cut 
his  head;  the  cook  is  going  away,  and  the  boiler 
leaks. 

2.  The  mechanic's  dark  little  third-story  room,  seen  in 
a  flash  from  the  Elevated  Railway  train;    the  sew 
ing-machine  in   the  corner;    the  small  cook-stove; 
the  whole  family  eating  cabbage  around  a  kerosene 
lamp;    of  the  clatter  and  roar  and  groaning  wail  of 
the  Elevated  train  unconscious;   of  the  smell  of  the 
cabbage  unconscious. 

Me,  passant,  in  the  train,  of  the  cabbage  not  quite  so 
unconscious. 

3.  The  French  flat;    the  small  rooms,  all  right- angles, 
unindividual;    the  narrow  halls;    the  gaudy  cheap 
decorations  everywhere. 

The  janitor  and  the  cook  exchanging  compliments  up 
and  down  the  elevator-shaft;  the  refusal  to  send  up 
more  coal,  the  solid  splash  of  the  water  upon  his 
head,  the  language  he  sends  up  the  shaft,  the  trium 
phant  laughter  of  the  cook,  to  her  kitchen  retiring. 

64 


ELSEWHERE 

4.  The  widow's  small  house  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city; 
the  widow's  boy  coming  home  from  his  first  day 
down  town;  he  is  flushed  with  happiness  and  pride; 
he  is  no  longer  a  school-boy,  he  is  earning  money; 
he  takes  on  the  airs  of  a  man  and  talks  learnedly  of 
business. 

5.  The  room  in  the  third-class  boarding-house;    the 
mean  little  hard-coal  fire,  the  slovenly  Irish  servant- 
girl  making  it,  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  the  faded 
furniture,   the  private  provender  hid  away  in  the 
closet,  the  dreary  back-yard  out  the  window;    the 
young  girl  at  the  glass,  with  her  mouth  full  of  hair 
pins,  doing  up  her  hair  to  go  down-stairs  and  flirt 
with  the  young  fellows  in  the  parlor. 

6.  The  kitchen  of  the  old  farm-house;   the  young  con 
vict  just  return' d  from  prison  —  it  was  his  first  of 
fense,  and  the  judges  were  lenient  to  him. 

He  is  taking  his  first  meal  out  of  prison;  he  has  been 
receiv'd  back,  kiss'd,  encourag'd  to  start  again;  his 
lungs,  his  nostrils  expand  with  the  big  breaths  of 
free  air;  with  shame,  with  wonderment,  with  a 
trembling  joy,  his  heart  too  expanding. 

The  old  mother  busies  herself  about  the  table;  she  has 
ready  for  him  the  dishes  he  us'd  to  like;  the  father 
sits  with  his  back  to  them,  reading  the  newspaper, 
the  newspaper  shaking  and  rustling  much;  the  chil 
dren  hang  wondering  around  the  prodigal  —  they 
have  been  caution'd:  Do  not  ask  where  our  Jim  has 
been;  only  say  you  are  glad  to  see  him. 

The  elder  daughter  is  there,  pale-fac'd,  quiet;  her 
young  man  went  back  on  her  four  years  ago;  his 

65 


ELSEWHERE 

folks  would  not  let  him  marry  a  convict's  sister. 
She  sits  by  the  window,  sewing  on  the  children's 
clothes,  the  clothes  not  only  patching  up;  her 
hunger  for  children  of  her  own  invisibly  patching  up. 

The  brother  looks  up;  he  catches  her  eye,  he  fearful, 
apologetic;  she  smiles  back  at  him,  not  reproach 
fully  smiling,  with  loving  pretense  of  hope  smiling  — 
it  is  too  much  for  him;  he  buries  his  face  in  the  folds 
of  the  mother's  black  gown. 

7.  The  best  room  of  the  house,  on  the  Sabbath  only 
open'd;  the  smell  of  horse-hair  furniture  and  ma 
hogany  varnish;  the  ornaments  on  the  what-not  in 
the  corner;  the  wax  fruit,  dusty,  sunken,  sagged  in, 
consumptive-looking,  under  a  glass  globe;  the  seal 
ing-wax  imitation  of  coral;  the  cigar  boxes  with 
shells  plastered  over;  the  perforated  card-board 
motto. 

The  kitchen;  the  housewife  sprinkling  the  clothes  for 
the  fine  ironing  to-morrow  —  it  is  Third-day  night, 
and  the  plain  things  are  already  iron'd,  now  in  cup 
boards,  in  drawers  stowed  away. 

The  wife  waiting  for  the  husband  —  he  is  at  the  tav 
ern,  jovial,  carousing;  she,  alone  in  the  kitchen 
sprinkling  clothes  —  the  little  red  wood  clock  with 
peaked  top,  with  pendulum  wagging  behind  a  pane 
of  gayly  painted  glass,  strikes  twelve. 

The  sound  of  the  husband's  voice  on  the  still  night  air 
—  he  is  singing:  We  won't  go  home  till  morning! — 
the  wife  arising,  toward  the  wood-shed  hastily  go 
ing,  stealthily  entering,  the  voice  all  the  time  com 
ing  nearer,  inebriate,  chantant. 

66 


ELSEWHERE 

The  wood-shed;  the  club  behind  the  door  of  the  wood 
shed;  the  wife  annexing  the  club;  the  husband  ap 
proaching,  always  inebriate,  chantant. 

The  husband  passing  the  door  of  the  wood-shed;  the 
club  over  his  head,  now  with  his  head  in  contact; 
the  sudden  cessation  of  the  song;  the  temperance 
pledge  signed  the  next  morning;  the  benediction  of 
peace  over  the  domestic  foyer  temporarily  resting. 


I  sing  the  soothing  influences  of  home. 
You,  young  man,  thoughtlessly  wandering,  with  cou 
rier,  with  guide-book  wandering, 
You  hearken  to  the  melody  of  my  steam-calliope. 
Yawp! 


ULTIMA  THULE 


FORTY 

IN  the  heyday  of  my  years,  when  I  thought  the  world 

was  young, 
And  believed  that  I  was  old  —  at  the  very  gates  of 

Life- 

It  seemed  in  every  song  the  birds  of  heaven  sung 
That  I  heard  the  sweet  injunction:  "Go  get  thee  a 
wife!" 

And  within  the  breast  of  youth  woke  a  secret  sweet 

desire; 
For  Love  spoke  in  that  carol  his  first  mysterious 

word, 
That  to-day  through  ashen  years  kindles  memory  into 

fire, 

Though  the  birds  are  dead  that  sang  it,  and  the 
heart  is  old  that  heard. 

I   have  watched   my   youth's  blue   heavens   flush   to 

angry,  brooding  red, 
And  again  the  crimson  palsied  in  a  dull,  unpregnant 

gloom ; 
I  am  older  than  some  sorrows;    I  have  watched  by 

Pleasure  dead; 

I  have  seen  Hope  grow  immortal  at  the  threshold  of 
the  tomb. 

71 


ULTIMA  THULE 

Through  the  years  by  turns  that  gave  me  now  curses, 

now  caresses, 
I  have  fought  a  fight  with  Fortune  wherein  Love 

hath  had  no  part; 
To-day,  when  peace  hard-conquered  ripe  years  and 

weary  blesses, 

Will  my  fortieth  summer  pardon  twenty  winters  to 
my  heart? 

When  the  spring-tide  verdure  darkens  to  the  sum 
mer's  deeper  glories, 
And  in  the  thickening  foliage  doth  the  year  its  life 

renew, 

Will  to  me  the  forests  whisper  once  more  their  wind- 
learnt  stories? 

Will  the  birds  their  message  bring  me  from  out  the 
heaven  of  blue? 

Will  the  wakened  world  sing  for  me  the  old  enchanted 

song  — 
Touch  the  underflow  of  love  that,  through  all  the 

toil  and  strife, 
Has  only  grown  the  stronger  as  the  years  passed  lone 

and  long? 
Shall  I  learn  the  will  of  Heaven  is  to  get  me  a  wife? 


72 


ULTIMA  THULE 

The  boy's  heart  yearns  for  freedom,  he  walks  hand-in- 
hand  with  pleasure; 
Made  bright  with  wine  and  kisses,  he  sees  the  face 

of  Life; 

He  would  make  the  world  a  pleasaunce  for  a  love  that 
.  knows  not  measure: 

But  the  man  seeks  Heaven,  and  finds  it  in  the  bosom 
of  his  wife. 


73 


STRONG  AS  DEATH 

0  DEATH,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 
From  out  thy  dark,  where  she  is  now, 

Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses  on  thy  brow. 

Come  not,  0  Death,  with  hollow  tone, 
And  soundless  step,  and  clammy  hand  — 

Lo,  I  am  now  no  less  alone 

Than  in  thy  desolate,  doubtful  land; 

But  with  that  sweet  and  subtle  scent 
That  ever  clung  about  her  (such 

As  with  all  things  she  brushed  was  blent); 
And  with  her  quick  and  tender  touch. 

With  the  dim  gold  that  lit  her  hair, 

Crown  thyself,  Death;   let  fall  thy  tread 

So  light  that  I  may  dream  her  there, 
And  turn  upon  my  dying  bed. 

And  through  my  chilling  veins  shall  flame 
My  love,  as  though  beneath  her  breath; 

And  in  her  voice  but  call  my  name, 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  0  Death. 


74 


DEAF 

As  to  a  bird's  song  she  were  listening, 

Her  beautiful  head  is  ever  sidewise  bent; 

Her  questioning  eyes  lift  up  their  depths  intent  - 
She,  who  will  never  hear  the  wild-birds  sing. 
My  words  within  her  ears'  cold  chambers  ring 

Faint,  with  the  city's  murmurous  sub-tones  blent; 

Though  with  such  sounds  as  suppliants  may  have 

sent 
To  high-throned  goddesses,  my  speech  takes  wing. 

Not  for  the  side-poised  head's  appealing  grace 
I  gaze,  nor  hair  where  fire  in  shadow  lies  — 

For  her  this  world's  unhallowed  noises  base 
Melt  into  silence;   not  our  groans,  our  cries, 

Our  curses,  reach  that  high-removed  place 
Where  dwells  her  spirit,  innocently  wise. 


75 


LES  MORTS  VONT  VITE 

Les  morts  wnt  vile  I    Ay,  for  a  little  space 

We  miss  and  mourn  them,  fallen  from  their  place; 

To  take  our  portion  in  their  rest  are  fain; 

But  by-and-by,  having  wept,  press  on  again, 
Perchance  to  win  their  laurels  in  the  race. 

What  man  would  find  the  old  in  the  new  love's  face? 
Seek  on  the  fresher  lips  the  old  kisses'  trace? 
For  withered  roses  newer  blooms  disdain? 
Les  morts  wnt  mte! 

But  when  disease  brings  thee  in  piteous  case, 
Thou  shalt  thy  dead  recall,  and  thy  ill  grace 

To  them  for  whom  remembrance  plead  in  vain. 

Then,  shuddering,  think,  while  thy  bed-fellow  Pain 
Clasps  thee  with  arms  that  cling  like  Death's  embrace: 
Les  morts  wnt  mte  I 


DISASTER 

A  ROAR  of  voices  and  a  tottering  town, 

A  dusty  ruin  of  high  walls  crumbling  down, 

A  wild,  blind  hurrying  of  men  mad  with  fear, 
Rushing  from  death  to  death  —  above,  the  clear, 

Calm,  pitiless,  lurid  orange  of  the  sky, 
Where  one  affrighted  vulture  dares  to  fly. 

On  either  side  an  ocean's  overflow; 

And  fume  and  thunder  of  hid  fires  below. 


Then,   when   the   next   morn   breaks,    fair,    heartless, 

bland, 
The  young  west  wind  strews  a  dead  world  with  sand: 

Follows  the  broad  and  jagged  swath  where  Fate 
Has  mown  a  thousand  corpses  mutilate. 

And  on  the  writhen  faces  bends  to  see 
Unspeakable  fear,  defiance,  agony. 

Sees  life's  vain  protest  turned  to  impotent  stone, 
Dumbly  reproachful  still,  and  sees,  alone, 

Smiling  in  death,  serene,  sweet,  undistressed, 
One  woman  with  a  cancer  at  her  breast. 

77 


SEPTEMBER 

RONDEAU 

THE  Summer  's  gone  —  how  did  it  go  ? 

And  where  has  gone  the  dogwood's  snow? 
The  air  is  sharp  upon  the  hill, 
And  with  a  tinkle  sharp  and  chill 

The  icy  little  brooklets  flow. 

What  is  it  in  the  season,  though, 
Brings  back  the  days  of  old,  and  so 
Sets  memory  recalling  still 

The  Summers  gone? 

Why  are  my  days  so  dark  ?   for  lo ! 

The  maples  with  fresh  glory  glow, 

Fair  shimmering  mists  the  valleys  fill, 
The  keen  air  sets  the  blood  a-thrill  — 

Ah !   now  that  you  are  gone,  I  know 

The  Summer  's  gone. 


THEN 

WHEN,  moved  by  sudden  strange  desires, 
And  innocent  shames  and  sweet  distress, 

Your  eyes  grow  large  and  moist,  your  lips 
Pout  to  a  kiss,  while  virgin  fires 

Run  flushing  to  your  finger  tips  — 
Then  I  will  tell  you  what  you  guess. 


79 


THE  APPEAL  TO  HAROLD3 

HARO  !    Haro ! 

Judge  now  betwixt  this  woman  and  me, 

Haro! 

She  leaves  me  bond,  who  found  me  free. 
Of  love  and  hope  she  hath  drained  me  dry  — 
Yea,  barren  as  a  drought-struck  sky; 
She  hath  not  left  me  tears  for  weeping, 
Nor  will  my  eyelids  close  in  sleeping. 
I  have  gathered  all  my  life's-blood  up  — 

Haro! 
She  hath  drunk  and  thrown  aside  the  cup. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  days? 

Haro! 

I  made  them  perfect  for  her  praise. 
There  was  no  flower  in  all  the  brake 
I  found  not  fairer  for  her  sake; 
There  was  no  sweet  thought  I  did  not  fashion 
For  aid  and  servant  to  my  passion. 
Labor  and  learning  worthless  were, 

Haro! 
Save  that  I  made  them  gifts  for  her. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  nights? 

Haro! 

Give  me  sweet  sleep  for  brief  delights? 
80 


ULTIMA  THULE 

Lo,  in  the  night's  wan  mid  I  lie, 

And  ghosts  of  hours  that  are  dead  go  by: 

Hours  of  a  love  that  died  unshriven; 

Of  a  love  in  change  for  my  manhood  given: 

She  caressed  and  slew  my  soul's  white  truth, 

Haro! 
Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  youth  ? 

Haro !    Haro ! 

Tell  thou  me  not  of  a  greater  judge, 

Haro! 

It  is  He  who  hath  my  sin  in  grudge. 
Yea,  from  God  I  appeal  to  thee; 
God  hath  not  part  or  place  for  me. 
Thou  who  hast  sinned,  judge  thou  my  sinning: 
I  have  staked  my  life  for  a  woman's  winning; 
She  hath  stripped  me  of  all  save  remembering  — 

Haro! 
Right  thou  me,  right  thou  me,  Harold  the  King ! 


81 


TO  A  DEAD  WOMAN 

NOT  a  kiss  in  life;   but  one  kiss,  at  life's  end, 
I  have  set  on  the  face  of  Death  in  trust  for  thee. 

Through  long  years  keep  it  fresh  on  thy  lips,  O  friend ! 
At  the  gate  of  Silence  give  it  back  to  me. 


THE  OLD   FLAG 

OFF  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by ! 

And  let  the  heart  have  its  say; 
You  're  man  enough  for  a  tear  in  your  eye 

That  you  will  not  wipe  away. 

You  're  man  enough  for  a  thrill  that  goes 

To  your  very  finger-tips  — 
Ay!  the  lump  just  then  in  your  throat  that  rose 

Spoke  more  than  your  parted  lips. 

Lift  up  the  boy  on  your  shoulder,  high, 

And  show  him  the  faded  shred  — 
Those  stripes  would  be  red  as  the  sunset  sky 

If  Death  could  have  dyed  them  red. 

The  man  that  bore  it  with  Death  has  lain 

This  twenty  years  and  more;  — 
He  died  that  the  work  should  not  be  vain 

Of  the  men  who  bore  it  before. 

The  man  that  bears  it  is  bent  and  old, 
And  ragged  his  beard  and  gray,  — 

But  look  at  his  eye  fire  young  and  bold, 
At  the  tune  that  he  hears  them  play. 

83 


ULTIMA  THULE 

The  old  tune  thunders  through  all  the  air, 
And  strikes  right  in  to  the  heart;  - 

If  ever  it  calls  for  you,  boy,  be  there ! 
Be  there,  and  ready  to  start. 

Off  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by ! 

Uncover  the  youngster's  head ! 
Teach  him  to  hold  it  holy  and  high, 

For  the  sake  of  its  sacred  dead. 

Evacuation  Day,  1883. 


84 


FROM  A  COUNTING-HOUSE 

THERE  is  an  hour  when  first  the  westering  sun 
Takes  on  some  forecast  faint  of  future  red; 
When  from  the  wings  of  weariness  is  shed 

A  spell  upon  us  toilers,  every  one; 

The  day's  work  lags  a  little,  well-nigh  done; 
Far  dusky  lofts  through  all  the  close  air  spread 
A  smell  of  eastern  bales;   the  old  clerk's  head 

Nods  by  my  side,  heavy  with  dreams  begun 

In  dear  dead  days  wherein  his  heart  is  tombed. 
But  I  my  way  to  Italy  have  found; 
Or  wander  where  high  stars  gleam  coldly  through 

The  Alpine  skies;   or  in  some  nest  perfumed, 
With  soft  Parisian  luxury  set  round, 
Hold  out  my  arms  and  cry  "At  last!"  to  you. 


TO  A  HYACINTH  PLUCKED  FOR 
DECORATION  DAY 

O  FLOWER,  plucked  before  the  dew 
Could  wet  thy  thirsty  petals  blue  — 
Grieve  not !   a  dearer  dew  for  thee 
Shall  be  the  tears  of  Memory. 


86 


LONGFELLOW 

POET  whose  sunny  span  of  fruitful  years 
Outreaches  earth,  whose  voice  within  our  ears 
Grows  silent  —  shall  we  mourn  for  thee  ?     Our  sigh 
Is  April's  breath,  our  grief  is  April's  tears. 

If  this  be  dying,  fair  it  is  to  die. 
Even  as  a  garment  weariness  lays  by, 
Thou  layest  down  life  to  pass,  as  Time  hath  passed, 
From  wintry  rigors  to  a  Springtime  sky. 

Are  there  tears  left  to  give  thee  at  the  last, 
Poet  of  spirits  crushed  and  hearts  down-cast, 
Loved  of  worn  women  who,  when  work  is  done, 
Weep  o'er  thy  page  in  twilights  fading  fast? 

Oh,  tender-toned  and  tender-hearted  one, 
We  give  thee  to  the  season  new  begun  — 
Lay  thy  white  head  within  the  arms  of  Spring  — 
Thy  song  had  all  her  shower  and  her  sun. 

Nay,  let  us  not  such  sorrowful  tribute  bring, 
Now  that  thy  lark-like  soul  hath  taken  wing: 
A  grateful  memory  fills  and  more  endears 

The  silence  when  a  bird  hath  ceased  to  sing. 


FOR  THE  FIRST  PAGE  OF  THE  ALBUM 

I  OPEN  this  to  write  for  her 

Within  whose  gates  is  ever  Peace; 

Beneath  whose  roof  the  wanderer 
Finds  from  his  wayside  cares  release. 

Her  presence  is  in  every  room, 

Her  silent  love  is  everywhere, 
As  pleasant  as  a  soft  perfume, 

As  soothing  as  a  twilight  air. 

No  song  shall  tell  the  friendly  debt 
My  gratitude  were  glad  to  pay; 

But  here  may  other  singers  set 
The  half  of  what  I  fain  would  say. 

More  sweetly  may  their  songs  be  made, 
Their  lines  in  purer  cadence  fall, 

Yet  none  —  yet  none  leaves  more  unsaid, 
With  truer  wish  to  say  it  all. 

September  10,  1883. 


FAREWELL  TO  SALVINI4 

April  26th,  1883 

ALTHOUGH  a  curtain  of  the  salt  sea-mist 

May  fall  between  the  actor  and  our  eyes  — 
Although  he  change  for  dear  and  softer  skies 

These  that  the  sun  has  yet  but  coyly  kissed  — 

Although  the  voice  to  which  we  loved  to  list 
Fail  ere  the  thunder  of  our  plaudits  dies  — 
Although  he  parts  from  us  in  gracious  wise, 

With  grateful  memory  left  his  eulogist  — 
His  best  is  with  us  still. 

His  perfect  art 

Has  held  us  'twixt  a  heart-throb  and  a  tear  — 
Cheating  our  souls  to  passionate  belief. 

And  in  his  greatness  we  have  now  some  part  — 
We  have  been  courtiers  of  the  crownless  Lear, 
And  partners  in  Othello's  mighty  grief. 


ON  READING  A  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK 

THIS  is  a  breath  of  summer  wind 

That  comes  —  we  know  not  how  —  that  goes 
As  softly,  —  leaving  us  behind 

Pleased  with  a  smell  of  vine  and  rose. 

Poet,  shall  this  be  all  thy  word? 

Blow  on  us  with  a  bolder  breeze; 
Until  we  rise,  as  having  heard 

The  sob,  the  song  of  far-off  seas. 

Blow  in  thy  shell  until  thou  draw, 

From  inner  whorls  where  still  they  sleep, 

The  notes  unguessed  of  love  and  awe, 
And  all  thy  song  grow  full  and  deep. 

Feeble  may  be  the  scanty  phrase  — 
Thy  dream  a  dream  tongue  never  spake  — 

Yet  shall  thy  note,  through  doubtful  days, 
Swell  stronger  for  Endeavor's  sake. 

As  Jacob,  wrestling  through  the  night, 
Felt  all  his  muscles  strengthen  fast 

With  wakening  strength,  and  met  the  light 
Blessed  and  strong,  though  overcast. 


90 


FEMININE 

SHE  might  have  known  it  in  the  earlier  Spring, 
That  all  my  heart  with  vague  desire  was  stirred; 

And,  ere  the  Summer  winds  had  taken  wing, 
I  told  her;   but  she  smiled  and  said  no  word. 

The  Autumn's  eager  hand  his  red  gold  grasped, 
And  she  was  silent;   till  from  skies  grown  drear 

Fell  soft  one  fine,  first  snow-flake,  and  she  clasped 
My  neck  and  cried,  "Love,  we  have  lost  a  year!" 


REDEMPTION 

As  to  the  drunkard  who  at  morn  doth  wake 
Are  the  clear  waters  of  the  virgin  spring 
Wherewith  he  bathes  his  eyes  that  burn  and  sting 
And  his  intolerable  thirst  doth  slake, 
So  is  the  thought  of  thee  to  me,  who  break 
One  sober  moment,  sick  and  shuddering, 
From  all  my  life's  unworthiness,  to  fling 
Me  at  thy  memory's  feet,  and  for  Love's  sake 
Pray  that  thy  peace  may  enter  in  my  soul. 
Love,  thou  hast  heard !  My  veins  more  calmly  flow — 

The  madness  of  the  night  is  passed  away  — 
Fire  of  false  eyes,  thirst  of  the  cursed  bowl  — 
I  drink  deep  of  thy  purity,  and  lo ! 
Thou  hast  given  me  new  heart  to  meet  the  day. 


92 


TRIUMPH 

THE  dawn  came  in  through  the  bars  of  the  blind, 

And  the  winter's  dawn  is  gray,  — 
And  said  —  However  you  cheat  your  mind, 

The  hours  are  flying  away. 

A  ghost  of  a  dawn,  and  pale  and  weak  — 

Has  the  sun  a  heart,  I  said, 
To  throw  a  morning  flush  on  the  cheek 

Whence  a  fairer  flush  has  fled? 

As  a  gray  rose-leaf  that  is  fading  white 
Was  the  cheek  where  I  set  my  kiss; 

And  on  that  side  of  the  bed  all  night 
Death  had  watched,  and  I  on  this. 

I  kissed  her  lips,  they  were  half  apart, 

Yet  they  made  no  answering  sign; 
Death's  hand  was  on  her  failing  heart, 

And  his  eyes  said  —  "She  is  mine." 

I  set  my  lips  on  the  blue-veined  lid, 
Half- veiled  by  her  death-damp  hair; 

And  oh,  for  the  violet  depths  it  hid, 
And  the  light  I  longed  for  there ! 

93 


ULTIMA  THULE 

Faint  day  and  the  fainter  life  awoke, 

And  the  night  was  overpast; 
And  I  said  —  "Though  never  in  life  you  spoke, 

Oh,  speak  with  a  look  at  last ! " 

For  the  space  of  a  heart-beat  fluttered  her  breath, 

As  a  bird's  wing  spread  to  flee; 
She  turned  her  weary  arms  to  Death, 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  to  me. 


94 


TO   HER 

PERCHANCE  the  spell  that  now  must  part 

Our  lives  may  yet  be  broken; 
And  then  your  sweet  unconscious  heart 

May  know  my  love  unspoken. 
Perchance  the  jealous  seal  of  Time 

May  break  in  some  far  season; 
And  you  will  read  this  book  of  rhyme, 

And  know  the  rhyme's  dear  reason. 

How  long  ago  the  song  began ! 

How  lonely  was  the  singer, 
Whose  mistress  never  thought  to  scan 

The  lines  he  dared  to  bring  her ! 
Oh,  will  you  ever  read  it  true, 

When  all  the  rhymes  are  ended  — 
How  much  of  Hope,  of  Love,  of  You, 

With  every  verse  was  blended. 

Who  knows?    But  when  the  bars  shall  fall 

That  set  our  souls  asunder, 
May  you,  at  last,  in  hearing  all, 

Feel  Love  grow  out  of  Wonder; 
And  may  the  song  be  glad  as  when 

The  boy's  fresh  voice  commenced  it; 
And  may  my  heart  be  beating  then, 

To  feel  your  own  against  it ! 

95 


ROWEN 

"SECOND  CROP"  SONGS 

[1892] 


TO  A.  L.  B. 

I  put  your  rose  within  our  baby's  hand, 
To  bear  back  with  him  into  Baby-land; 
Your  rose,  you  grew  it  —  O  my  ever  dear, 
What  roses  you  have  grown  me,  year  by  year! 
Your  lover  finds  no  path  too  hard  to  go 
While  your  love's  roses  round  about  him  blow. 

October,  1892. 


Why  do  I  love  New  York,  my  dear? 
I  know  not.     Were  my  father  here  — 

And  his and  HIS the  three  and  I 

Might,  perhaps,  make  you  some  reply. 


AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  BALL  —  1889 

AN   OLD  MAN'S   OLD  FANCIES 

THERE  's  the  music  —  go,  my  sweet, 

I  will  sit  and  watch  you  here; 
There  's  a  tingling  in  my  feet 

I  Ve  not  felt  this  many  a  year. 

But  my  music  's  done,  my  dear  — 
'T  is  enough  this  heart  can  beat 

Time  to  strains  that  stir  your  heart; 
'T  is  enough  these  eyes  can  see 

Fresh  young  fires  of  pleasure  start 
In  the  eyes  you  turn  to  me. 

Loving,  yet,  my  dear, 

Loath  to  linger  here  — 
Music-maddened,  all  impatient  to  be  free. 
Go,  the  music  swells  and  rises  —  go  ! 

Younger  faces  wait  you  where 

All  a-tremble  is  the  air, 
And  a  rhythmic  murmur  low 

Wavers  to  and  fro  - 
Life  and  dance  and  clasp  of  lover's  hands  await 

you  there. 
Go,  my  child,  with  cheeks  that  burn, 

Eyes  that  shine,  and  fluttering  breast, 
Go,  and  leave  me  —  not  alone ! 

In  the  dance  you  shall  be  prest 
103 


ROWEN 

Close,  and  all  your  soul  shall  turn 
Tender  at  the  music's  tone; 

But  more  close,  more  tenderly 
Shall  the  exultant  harmony 
Speak  to  this  old,  awakened  heart,  that  hears 
The  voices  of  dead  years. 

She  goes  —  and  from  below,  up-springing, 

The  stress  and  swell  of  lilting  sound 
Set  one  vast  field  of  color  swinging 

In  sinuous  measure  round  and  round. 
The  fiddle-bows  go  up  in  the  air, 
And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down; 
And  the  girl  of  mine  with  the  yellow  hair 
Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 

My  eyes  grow  dim  to  see; 

But  the  music  sends  a  song  to  me, 

And  here  's  the  song  that  comes  from  below  — 

From  the  dancing  tip  of  the  fiddle-bow: 

THE  BALL  —  1789 

THE  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball; 
From  the  Battery  to  Hickory  Lane 

The  Beaux  come  one  and  all. 
The  French  folk  up  along  the  Sound 

Took  carriage  for  the  city, 
And  Madge  the  Belle,  from  New  Rochelle, 

Will  stop  with  Lady  Kitty. 
104 


ROWEN 

And  if  the  Beaux  could  have  their  way 

Their  choice  would  be,  in  Brief, 
That  Madge  the  Belle  should  lead  the  ball 

And  open  with  THE  CHIEF. 
Though  Lady  Kitty's  high  estate 

May  give  his  choice  some  reason, 
By  Right  Divine  Madge  holds  her  place  — 

The  Toast  of  all  the  Season. 

Behold  her  as  she  trips  the  floor 

By  Lady  Kitty's  side  — 
How  low  bows  Merit  at  her  glance, 

And  Valor,  true  and  tried ! 
Each  hand  that  late  the  sword-hilt  grasped 

Would  fain  her  hand  be  pressing  — 
But,  ah !   fair  Madge,  who  '11  wear  your  badge 

Is  past  all  wooer's  guessing. 

The  Colonel  bows  his  powdered  head 

Well  nigh  unto  her  feet; 
Fame's  Trump  rings  dull  unto  his  ears, 

That  wait  her  Accents  sweet. 
The  young  Leftenant,  Trig  and  Trim, 

Who  lately  won  his  spurs, 
Casts  love-sick  glances  in  her  way, 

And  wins  no  glance  of  hers. 

Before  her  bows  the  Admiral, 

Whose  head  was  never  bowed 
Before  the  foamy-crested  wave 

That  wet  the  straining  shroud. 
105 


ROWEN 

And  all  his  pretty  midshipmen, 

They  stand  there  in  a  line, 
Saluting  this  Fair  Craft  that  sails 

With  no  surrendering  sign. 

And  so  she  trips  across  the  floor 

On  Lady  Kitty's  arm, 
And  grizzled  pates  and  frizzled  pates 

All  bow  before  her  charm. 
And  she  will  dance  the  minuet, 

A-facing  Lady  Kitty, 
Nor  miss  THE  CHIEF  —  she  hath,  in  brief, 

Her  choice  of  all  the  city. 


But  in  the  minuet  a  hand 

Shall  touch  her  finger-tips, 
And  almost  to  a  Kiss  shall  turn 

The  Smile  upon  her  lips; 
And  he  is  but  a  midship  boy, 

And  she  is  Madge  the  Belle; 
But  never  to  Chief  nor  to  Admiral 

Such  a  tale  her  lips  shall  tell. 


The  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball, 
And  the  Town  shall  talk  as  never  before 

Ere  another  night  shall  fall; 
And  men  shall  rave  in  Rector  street, 

And  men  shall  swear  in  Pine, 
106 


ROWEN 

And  hearts  shall  break  for  Madge's  sake 
From  Bay  to  City  Line. 

And  Lady  Kit  shall  wring  her  hands, 

And  write  the  tale  to  tell 
(To  that  much  dreaded  Maiden  Aunt 

Who  lives  at  New  Rochelle) 
All  of  a  gallant  Midshipman 

Who  wooed  in  April  weather 
The  Fairest  of  All  at  the  Chieftain's  Ball 

And  they  ran  away  together ! 


And  from  below  the  music  flowing 

Has  taken  a  measured,  mocking  fall, 
And  forward,  backward,  coming,  going, 

They  dance  the  Minuet  of  the  Ball. 
And  even  as  once  her  grandmama 

Went  flitting  to  and  fro 
In  a  dance  she  danced  with  grandpapa 
One  hundred  years  ago  — 
So,  while  the  fiddle-bows  go  up, 
And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down, 
A  daughter  of  mine  with  yellow  hair 
Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 

And  now  again,  in  cadence  changing, 
The  music  takes  a  waltzing  swing, 

And  sets  an  old  man's  fancies  ranging 
Among  the  tunes  his  memories  sing:  — 

I  hear  a  sound  of  strings  long  slackened, 
107 


ROWEN 

The  hum  of  many  a  stringless  bow 
On  fiddles  broken,  warped  and  blackened 

With  dust  of  years  of  long  ago; 
And  hear  the  waltz  that  thrilled  and  quivered 

Along  the  yearning  pulse  of  youth, 
And  unto  two  dumb  hearts  delivered 

The  message  of  Love's  hidden  truth. 

THE  BALL  —  1861 

To  the  front  at  morn ! 
To  the  front  at  the  break  of  day ! 
And  the  transport  ship  lies  tossing  on  the  waves  of  the 
lower  bay. 

Her  sails  are  white 
In  the  silver  stream  of  the  moon; 
The  moon  will  soon  be  red  as  blood,  her  sails  will  be 
reddened  soon. 

To  us  who  go 

Is  given  a  dance  to-night  — 

We  may  clasp  our  arms  around  women  and  gather  the 
strength  to  fight. 

Clasp  Heaven  so  close! 
Look  in  Love's  eyes  and  part ! 

Will  the  bullet  that  kills  the  body  make  an  end  of  the 
hunger  of  heart? 


108 


ROWEN 

To  our  breasts  they  strain, 
Beautiful,  warm  with  life  - 

Make  men  of  us  who  would  make  us  heroes  for  mortal 
strife. 

Can  I  hold  you  thus, 
And  release  you,  all  unsaid? 

Know  I  shall  want  you,  dead  or  living,  and  dream  you 
may  want  me,  dead? 

The  last,  last  dance  — 
For  the  gray  of  the  mom  is  near  — 
Cling  to  me  once,  till  I  learn  the  tune  that  shall  out- 
sing  Death  at  my  ear ! 

Cling  to  me  once,  but  once  — 
This  is  my  whole  life's  round ! 
Give  me  to  face  Death's  silence  this  moment  of  motion 

and  sound. 
******** 

Then,  as  the  word  unsaid 
Found  voice  in  the  music's  tone, 
She  looked  in  my  face,  and  I  knew  that  my  soul  should 
not  go  alone. 

And  the  gray  dawn  came, 
But  to  us  had  come  a  light 

To  make  the  face  of  Life  and  the  face  of  Death  shine 
bright. 


109 


ROWEN 

To  the  front  at  morn  ! 
To  the  front  at  the  break  of  day ! 
Farewell,  I  said,  my  Love,  and  love  went  with  me  upon 
my  way. 


So,  through  the  weary  years 
Of  prayers  and  tears 

She  waited  for  me,  till  I  came  at  last; 
Came  when  the  soldier's  work  was  done, 
And  the  one  holy  end  of  war  was  won, 

And  par  ting- time  was  past. 

And  once  again  the  old  tune,  winging 

Its  way  to  hearts  that  still  were  young, 
Set  brain  and  pulse  and  spirit  swinging, 

And  once  again  to  me  she  clung. 
And  then  —  but,  ah !   my  music's  done  — 

For  this  short  way  I  have  to  go 
An  old  tune  in  my  mind  may  run 

That  she  and  I  once  used  to  know, 
And  make  an  old  man's  memories  stir  — 

But  all  earth's  music  died  with  her. 
But  for  you  below,  my  sweet  — 

You  she  left  me  —  still  for  you 
Bowstrings  quiver,  batons  beat, 

And  the  fiddles  thrill  you  through. 
Yours  it  is  to  dance,  and  still, 

Dancing,  you  may  look  in  eyes 
Quick  to  love  you,  if  you  will  — 

Quick  to  turn  to  high  emprise 
1 10 


ROWEN 

When  the  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Makes  the  test  of  manhood's  worth. 

But,  for  me,  my  music  's  done,  — 

I  can  only  sit  and  hear 
Through  your  whirl  of  tunes  the  one 

That  Love  holds  dear. 

While  the  fiddle-bows  go  up  in  the  air, 
And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down, 

And  the  girl  of  mine  with  the  yellow  hair 

Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 


Ill 


There  's  but  one  thing  to  sing  about, 

And  poor  's  the  song  that  does  without; 

And  many  a  song  would  not  live  long 

Were  it  not  for  the  theme  that  is  never  worked  out. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR'S 
CALLERS 

THE    STORY    OF    AN    OLD    MAN,    AN    OLD    MAN'S    FRIEND 
SHIP,  AND  A  NEW  CARD-BASKET 

THE  door  is  shut  —  I  think  the  fine  old  face 

Trembles  a  little,  round  the  under  lip; 
His  look  is  wistful  —  can  it  be  the  place 

Where,  at  his  knock,  the  bolt  was  quick  to  slip 
(It  had  a  knocker  then),  when,  bravely  decked, 

He  took,  of  New  Year's,  with  his  lowest  bow, 
His  glass  of  egg-nog,  white  and  nutmeg-flecked, 

From  her  who  is  —  where  is  the  young  bride  now  ? 

O  Greenwood,  answer !     Through  your  ample  gate 

There  went  a  hearse,  these  many  years  ago; 
And  often  by  a  grave  —  more  oft  of  late  — 

Stands  an  old  gentleman,  with  hair  like  snow. 
Two  graves  he  stands  by,  truly;   for  the  friend 

Who  won  her,  long  has  lain  beside  his  wife; 
And  their  old  comrade,  waiting  for  the  end, 

Remembers  what  they  were  to  him  in  life. 

And  now  he  stands  before  the  old-time  door, 

A  little  gladdened  in  his  lonely  heart 
To  give  of  love  for  those  that  are  no  more 

To  those  that  live  to-day  a  generous  part. 
Ay,  She  has  gone,  sweet,  loyal,  brave  and  gay  — 

us 


ROWEN 

But  then,  her  daughter  's  grown  and  wed  the  while; 
And  the  old  custom  lingers:   New  Year's  Day, 
Will  not  she  greet  him  with  her  mother's  smile  ? 

But  things  are  changed,  ah,  changed,  you  see; 
We  keep  no  New  Year's,  now,  not  we  — 

It 's  an  old-time  day, 

And  an  old-time  way, 
And  an  old-time  fashion  we  've  chosen  to  cut  — 

And  the  dear  old  man 

May  wait  as  he  can 
In  front  of  the  old-time  door  that 's  shut. 


116 


MAY-BLOOM 

OH,  for  you  that  I  never  knew !  — 

Now  that  the  Spring  is  swelling, 

And  over  the  way  is  a  whitening  may, 

In  the  yard  of  my  neighbor's  dwelling. 

O  may,  oho !   Do  your  sisters  blow 

Out  there  in  the  country  grasses, 

A-mocking  the  white  of  the  cloudlet  light 
That  up  in  the  blue  sky  passes? 

Here  in  town  the  grass  it  is  brown 

Right  under  your  beautiful  clusters; 

But  your  sisters  thrive  where  the  sward's  alive 
With  emerald  lights  and  lusters. 

Dream  of  my  dreams !   vision  that  seems 

Ever  to  scorn  my  praying, 
Love  that  I  wait,  face  of  my  fate, 

Come  with  me  now  a-maying. 

Soul  of  my  soul !   all  my  life  long, 
Looking  for  you  I  wander; 

Long  have  I  sought  —  shall  I  find  naught 
Under  the  may-bushes  yonder? 

Oh,  for  you  that  I  never  knew, 

Only  in  dreams  that  bind  you !  — 

By  Spring's  own  grace  I  shall  know  your  face 
When  under  the  may  I  find  you  ! 

117 


THE   LINNET 

ALL  day  he  sat  in  silence, 

In  his  shining  cage  sat  he, 
And  the  day  grew  dim,  but  never  from  him 

Came  a  note  of  melody. 

But  late  at  night  in  silence 

Heart  to  heart  came  He  and  She 

To  the  darkened  room;  and  out  of  the  gloom 
Came  the  linnet's  melody. 


118 


HEAVE   HO! 

HEAVE  ho !   the  anchor  over  the  bow, 

And  off  to  sea  go  I; 
The  wild  wind  blows,  and  nobody  knows 

That  I  have  you  always  nigh. 
Right  close  in  my  heart  I  can  keep  you  here 

In  memory  fond  and  true, 
For  there  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  — 

There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 

Oho !   the  billows  of  Biscay  Bay, 

And  the  stars  of  the  southern  sea ! 
But  the  dark-haired  girls  may  shake  their  curls, 

With  never  a  look  from  me; 
For  the  thought  of  my  love  shall  be  ever  near, 

Though  wide  is  the  ocean  blue, 
And  there  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  - 

There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 

The  end  of  the  world  is  a  weary  way, 

And  I  know  not  where  it  lies, 
And  maidens  fair  may  smile  on  me  there, 

And  girls  with  laughing  eyes; 
But  in  all  the  days  of  all  the  year, 

Though  I  wander  the  whole  world  through, 
There  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  — 

There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 
119 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  LOVE-SONG 

TELL  me  what  within  her  eyes 
Makes  the  forgotten  Spring  arise, 
And  all  the  day,  if  kind  she  looks, 
Flow  to  a  tune  like  tinkling  brooks; 
Tell  me  why,  if  but  her  voice 
Falls  on  men's  ears,  their  souls  rejoice; 
Tell  me  why,  if  only  she 
Doth  come  into  the  companie, 
All  spirits  straight  enkindled  are, 
As  if  a  moon  lit  up  a  star. 

Tell  me  this  that  Js  writ  above, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  I  love. 

Tell  me  why  the  foolish  wind 

Is  to  her  tresses  ever  kind, 

And  only  blows  them  in  such  wise 

As  lends  her  beauty  some  surprise; 

Tell  me  why  no  changing  year 

Can  change  from  Spring,  if  she  appear; 

Tell  me  why  to  see  her  face 

Begets  in  all  folk  else  a  grace 

That  makes  them  fair,  as  love  of  her 

Did  to  a  gentler  nature  stir. 

Tell  me  why,  if  she  but  go 
Alone  across  the  fields  of  snow, 
120 


ROWEN 

All  fancies  of  the  Springs  of  old 
Within  a  lover's  breast  grow  bold; 
Tell  me  why,  when  her  he  sees, 
Within  him  stirs  an  April  breeze; 
And  all  that  in  his  secret  heart 
Most  sacredly  was  set  apart, 
And  most  was  hidden,  then  awakes, 
At  the  sweet  joy  her  coming  makes. 

Tell  me  what  is  writ  above, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  I  love. 


121 


A  LOOK  BACK 

A   CASTLE- YARD — 1585 

(Enter  SIR  BEVYS,  mounted.     There  comes  to  meet  him, 
bearing  a  cup  of  wine,  MAID  MARGERY) 

WHAT,  Madge  —  nay,  Madge !  why,  sweetheart,  is  it 

thou? 

Faith,  but  I  knew  thee  not  —  nor  know  thee  yet ! 
Madge  —  Margery  —  child  —  coz,      thou  'st      grown 

apace. 

Why,  what  a  merry  coming  home  is  this ! 
To  have  my  cousin  meet  me  in  the  court, 
My  half -grown  cousin,  grown  an  angel  half, 
Lifting  a  cup  to  make  the  wanderer  welcome, 
With  such  an  arm  —  why,  Margery,  't  was  a  reed, 
A  meagre,  sun-specked  reed,  when  last  I  saw  it, 
Three  years  ago  —  coz,  these  were  busy  years 
That  dealt  so  kindly  with  thee.     I  set  forth 
Three  years  agone  last  Michaelmas,  and  thou  — 
Why,  thou  and  Rupert  were  an  elfish  pair 
Of  freckled  striplings  —  yea,  thy  elbows,  Madge, 
My  cousin  Margery,  were  as  rasping  sharp 
As  old  Dame  Ursula  her  tongue  —  ay,  cousin, 
I  '11  drink  once  more,  so  thou  wilt  lift  the  cup 
And  show  that  snowy  round  again.     And  Rupert, 
My  brother  Rupert,  how  fares  he  ?     Nay,  nay ! 
First  in  the  tourney?     Sturdiest  Knight  of  all? 

122 


ROWEN 

Gad's  grace,  the  world  has  wagged  while  I  have  wan 
dered. 

I  '11  tell  thee  this,  thou  Hebe  hazel-eyed, 
Had  I  seen  further  I  had  wandered  less. 
But  who  'd  have  thought  the  slender  girl  I  left, 
The  straggling  weed  —  thy  present  grace  may  pardon 
My  memory  rude  —  had  grown  to  this  fair  flower  — 
To  this  bright  comeliness,  this  young  perfection, 
This  —  this  - 

Maid  Margery  let  her  lashes  down, 
And  bent  her  head  —  perhaps  the  sunset  fell 
A  trifle  'thwart  her  face  —  perhaps  she  blushed, 
As,  looking  down  into  the  empty  cup, 
She  answered  very  softly: 

" Rupert  did." 


123 


PRUDENCE,  SPINNING 

A   STUDIO   STUDY 


PRUDENCE,  sitting  by  the  fire, 
Lift  your  head  a  little  higher  — 
How  the  firelight  ripples  in 
And  out  the  dimple  of  your  chin  — 
How  your  sidewise-tilted  head 
Snares  the  flickering  gleams  of  red; 
Snares  them  in  a  golden  net 
Than  your  distaff  fleecier  yet ! 
0  my  Prudence,  turn  —  but  no  — 
Shall  a  century  backward  flow? 
Prudence  —  ah,  awelladay ! 
You  're  a  hundred  years  away. 

ii 

He  who  looks  upon  you  hears 
Through  a  hundred  bygone  years 
Whir  of  wheel  and  foot's  light  tap 
On  the  treadle,  and  the  snap 
Of  the  rose-red  hickory  logs, 
Sputtering,  sinking  on  the  dogs; 
And  your  breath  he  almost  feels 
In  a  gentle  sigh  that  steals 
From  your  lips,  while  hand  in  head 
Weave  a  dream  and  spin  a  thread  — 
I24 


ROWEN 

Prudence  —  who  'd  believe  it,  pray  ? 

You  're  a  hundred  years  away. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Silent  was  the  studio, 
Duller  grew  the  hickory's  glow, 
And  the  skylight,  cold  and  faint, 
Seemed  to  frown  —  "  'T  is  late  to  paint ! 
Prudence  drooped  a  weary  head, 
Hearing  not  the  painter's  tread, 
As  he  crossed  the  room  and  bent 
Just  where  blush  and  firelight  blent. 
O  my  Prudence,  model  fair ! 
Where  's  your  prim  provincial  air  ? 
Prudence  —  ah,  awelladay ! 
How  a  century  slips  away ! 


125 


THE  LIGHT 

THERE  is  no  shadow  where  my  love  is  laid; 

For  (ever  thus  I  fancy  in  my  dream, 

That  wakes  with  me  and  wakes  my  sleep)  some  gleam 
Of  sunlight,  thrusting  through  the  poplar  shade, 
Falls  there;  and  even  when  the  wind  has  played 

His  requiem  for  the  Day,  one  stray  sunbeam, 

Pale  as  the  palest  moonlight  glimmers  seem, 
Keeps  sentinel  for  Her  till  starlights  fade. 

And  I,  remaining  here  and  waiting  long, 
And  all  enfolded  in  my  sorrow's  night, 

Who  not  on  earth  again  her  face  may  see, — 
For  even  memory  does  her  likeness  wrong, — 
Am  blind  and  hopeless,  only  for  this  light  — 

This  light,  this  light,  through  all  the  years  to  be. 


126 


Which  was  the  harder  to  lay  down. 
Art  and  ambition,  or  a  crown? 
The  sceptre  or  the  fiddle-bow? 
I  know  not.     All  were  loath  to  go. 
Yet  who  would  call,  did  Fate  permit, 
One  of  these  back  to  what  he  quit? 


GRANT 

SMILE  on,  thou  new-come  Spring  —  if  on  thy  breeze 
The  breath  of  a  great  man  go  wavering  up 
And  out  of  this  world's  knowledge,  it  is  well. 

Kindle  with  thy  green  flame  the  stricken  trees, 

And  fire  the  rose's  many-petaled  cup, 

Let  bough  and  branch  with  quickening  life-blood  swell — 

But  Death  shall  touch  his  spirit  with  a  life 

That  knows  not  years  or  seasons.     Oh,  how  small 

Thy  little  hour  of  bloom !     Thy  leaves  shall  fall, 

And  be  the  sport  of  winter  winds  at  strife; 

But  he  has  taken  on  eternity. 

Yea,  of  how  much  this  Death  doth  set  him  free !  — 

Now  are  we  one  to  love  him,  once  again. 

The  tie  that  bound  him  to  our  bitterest  pain 

Draws  him  more  close  to  Love  and  Memory. 

0  Spring,  with  all  thy  sweetheart  frolics,  say, 

Hast  thou  remembrance  of  those  earlier  springs 
When  we  wept  answer  to  the  laughing  day, 

And  turned  aside  from  green  and  gracious  things? 
There  was  a  sound  of  weeping  over  all  - 

Mothers  uncomforted,  for  their  sons  were  not; 

And  there  was  crueler  silence:  tears  grew  hot 
In  the  true  eyes  that  would  not  let  them  fall. 

129 


ROWEN 

Up  from  the  South  came  a  great  wave  of  sorrow 
That  drowned  our  hearthstones,  splashed  with  blood 
our  sills; 

To-day,  that  spared,  made  terrible  To-morrow 
With  thick  presentiment  of  coming  ills. 

Only  we  knew  the  Right  —  but  oh,  how  strong, 

How  pitiless,  how  insatiable  the  Wrong ! 

And  then  the  quivering  sword-hilt  found  a  hand 

That  knew  not  how  to  falter  or  grow  weak; 

And  we  looked  on,  from  end  to  end  the  land, 

And  felt  the  heart  spring  up,  and  rise  afresh 

The  blood  of  courage  to  the  whitened  cheek, 

And  fire  of  battle  thrill  the  numbing  flesh. 

Ay,  there  was  death,  and  pain,  and  dear  ones  missed, 

And  lips  forever  to  grow  pale  unkissed; 

But  lo,  the  man  was  here,  and  this  was  he; 

And  at  his  hands  Faith  gave  us  victory. 

Spring,  thy  poor  life,  that  mocks  his  body's  death, 

Is  but  a  candle's  flame,  a  flower's  breath. 

He  lives  in  days  that  suffering  made  dear 

Beyond  all  garnered  beauty  of  the  year. 

He  lives  in  all  of  us  that  shall  outlive 

The  sensuous  things  that  paltry  time  can  give. 

This  Spring  the  spirit  of  his  broken  age 

Across  the  threshold  of  its  anguish  stole  — 
All  of  him  that  was  noble,  fearless,  sage, 

Lives  in  his  loved  nation's  strengthened  soul. 


130 


"LET  US  HAVE  PEACE " 

U.  S.  GRANT  —  JULY  23,  1885 

His  name  was  as  a  sword  and  shield, 

His  words  were  armed  men, 
He  mowed  his  foemen  as  a  field 

Of  wheat  is  mowed  —  and  then 

Set  his  strong  hand  to  make  the  shorn  earth  smile 
again. 

Not  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  fight, 
The  unbroken  line  of  war, 
Did  he  best  battle  for  the  right  — 

His  victory  was  more: 
Peace  was  his  triumph,  greater  far  than  all  before. 

Who  in  the  spirit  and  love  of  peace 

Takes  sadly  up  the  blade, 
Makes  war  on  war,  that  wars  may  cease  — 

He  striveth  undismayed, 

And  in  the  eternal  strength   his   mortal   strength  is 
stayed. 

Peace,  that  he  conquered  for  our  sake  — 

This  is  his  honor,  dead. 
We  saw  the  clouds  of  battle  break 

To  glory  o'er  his  head  — 
But  brighter  shone  the  light  about  his  dying  bed. 


ROWEN 

Dead  is  thy  warrior,  King  of  Life, 
Take  thou  his  spirit  flown; 
The  prayer  of  them  that  knew  his  strife 

Goes  upward  to  thy  throne  — 

Peace  be  to  him  who  fought  —  and  fought  for  Peace 
alone. 


132 


THE  BATTLE  OF  APIA  BAY 

MARCH  15,  1889 

THE  portholes  black  look  over  the  bay 

To  the  ports  on  the  other  side; 
And  the  gun  in  each  grim  square  porthole  dim 

Is  guarding  a  nation's  pride. 

Two  fleets  are  they  in  an  alien  sea, 

And  whether  as  friends  or  foes, 
Till  the  diplomats'  prattle  decides  their  battle, 

Nor  sailor  nor  captain  knows. 

But  strange  to  each  is  the  sun  that  starts 
The  pitch  in  the  white  deck's  seams, 

While  the  watch,  half  dozing  with  eyes  half  closing, 
Go  home  in  their  waking  dreams. 

And  strange  is  the  land  that  lies  about, 

And  the  folk  with  faces  brown, 
To  the  Pommerland  boy  with  the  yellow  beard, 

And  the  boy  from  Portland  town. 

And  each  looks  over  the  bay  to  each  — 

Is  the  end  of  it  peace  or  war? 
And  the  wish  that 's  best  in  each  brave  young  breast 

Is  the  wish  for  a  run  ashore. 


133 


ROWEN 

Death  came  out  of  the  sea  last  night  — 

Death  is  aboard  this  morn  — 
The  water  is  over  the  war-ship's  prow, 

And  her  snow-white  sails  are  torn. 

And  the  bright  blue  waves  that  leap  to  catch 

The  glint  of  the  tropic  sun 
Roll  overhead,  and  beneath  are  the  dead, 

For  the  battle  is  fought  and  won. 

There  's  the  Pommerland  boy  with  his  yellow  beard, 

And  the  Maine  boy  bearded  brown; 
And  there  's  weeping  sore  on  the  Pommerland  shore; 

There  are  tears  in  Portland  town. 

O  ships  that  guard  two  nations'  pride, 

Death  had  no  need  for  ye ! 
They  went  to  their  fate  through  no  man's  hate  — 

Death's  servant  was  the  Sea. 


134 


WILHELM  L,  EMPEROR  OF  GERMANY 

MARCH  22,  1797  —  JANUARY  2,  1861 — JANUARY  18, 
1871  —  MARCH  9,  1888 

WHEN  the  gray  Emperor  at  the  Gates  of  Death 
Stood  silent,  up  from  Earth  there  came  the  sound 

Of  mourning  and  dismay;  man's  futile  breath 
Vexed  the  still  air  around. 

But  silent  stood  the  Emperor  and  alone 
Before  the  ever  silent  gates  of  stone 

That  open  and  close  at  either  end  of  life; 
As  who,  having  fought  his  fight, 
Stands,  overtaken  of  night, 

And  hears  afar  the  receding  sound  of  strife. 

Wide  open  swing  the  gates: 

Hail,  Hohenzollern,  hail  to  thee  I 
If  thou  be  he 

For  whom  each  hero  waits, 
Hail,  hail  to  thee ! 

So  rings 

The  chorus  of  the  Kings. 

This  is  the  House  of  Death,  the  Hall  of  Fame, 

Lit,  its  vast  length,  by  torches'  flickering  flame; 

And,  with  their  faces  by  the  torch-fires  lit, 

Around  the  board  the  expectant  monarchs  sit. 

135 


ROWEN 

Filled  are  their  drink-horns  with  the  immortals'  wine 
They  wait  for  him,  the  latest  of  their  line. 

Under  the  flags  they  sit,  beneath 

The  which  the  keen  sword  spurned  its  sheath. 

Under  the  flags  that  first  were  woven 

To  bring  the  fire  to  stranger  eyes; 
That  now,  at  cost  of  corselets  cloven, 

In  lines  of  tattered  trophies  rise. 
To  greet  the  newly  come  they  wait  — 
The  heroes  of  the  German  State: 

His  father,  unto  whom  the  west  wind  blew 

The  echo  of  the  guns  of  Waterloo: 

That  greater  FREDERICK,  with  the  lust  of  power 

Still  smoldering  in  his  eyes,  his  troubled  heart 
Impatient  with  the  briefness  of  his  hour 

That  altered  Europe's  chart: 
And  he,  the  Great  Elector,  he  who  first 

Sounded  to  Poland's  King  a  nation's  word: 

And  he  who,  earlier,  by  Rome  accursed, 

The  trumpet-tone  of  Martin  Luther  heard  — 
So  the  long  line  of  faces  grim 
Grows  faint  and  dim, 
And  at  the  farther  end,  where  lights  burn  low, 

Where,  through  a  misty  glow, 
Heroes  of  German  song  and  story  rise 

Gods  to  our  eyes, 

Great  HERMANN  rises,  father  of  a  race, 
To  give  the  Emperor  his  place. 

136 


ROWEN 

"Come  to  the  table's  head, 

Among  the  ennobled  dead!" 
He  cries:  "Nor  none  shall  ask  me  of  thy  right." 

Then  speaks  he  to  the  board: 

"Bow  down,  in  one  accord, 
To  him  whose  strength  is  Majesty,  not  Might. 

"Emperor  and  King  he  comes;  his  people's  cry 

Pierces  our  distant  sky; 

Emperor  and  King  he  comes,  whose  mighty  hand 
Gathered  in  one  the  kingdoms  of  the  land. 

Yet  greater  far  the  tale  shall  be 

That  gains  him  immortality: 
To  his  high  task  no  selfish  thought, 
No  coward  hesitance  he  brought; 
All  that  it  was  to  be  a  King 

He  was,  nor  counted  of  the  cost. 
He  rounds  our  circle  —  Time  may  bring 
The  day  when  Earth  shall  need  no  King  — 

All  that  Kings  were,  in  him  Earth  lost." 

"Hail,  Hohenzollern,  hail!"  cried  the  heroes  dead; 
And  the  gray  Emperor  sat  at  the  table's  head. 


137 


GENERAL  SHERMAN 

FEBRUARY  14,  1891 

BOWED  banners  and  the  drums'  thick  muffled  beat 

For  him,  and  silent  crowds  along  the  street; 

The  stripes  of  white  and  crimson  on  his  breast, 

And  all  the  trapping  of  a  warrior's  rest; 

For  him  the  wail  of  dirges,  and  the  tread 

Of  the  vast  army  following  its  dead 

Unto  the  great  surrender;  half-mast  high 

For  him  the  flags  shall  brave  the  winter  sky  — 

These  be  his  honors:  and  some  old  eyes  dim 

For  love's  sake,  more  than  fame's  —  for  him,  for  him ! 

These  things  are  his;  yet  not  to  him  alone 

Is  this  proud  wealth  of  ordered  honor  shown. 

Thus  to  their  graves  may  go  all  men  who  stand 

Between  their  country  and  the  foeman's  brand: 

This  is  the  meed  of  hardihood  in  fight, 

The  formal  tribute  to  a  hero's  might. 

A  myriad  dead  have  won  the  like  award  — 

The  unknown,  unnumbered  servants  of  the  sword. 

Hath  he  no  greater  honor? 

Yes,  although 

It  win  for  his  dead  clay  no  funeral  show, 
Nor  none  shall  tell  upon  the  market-place 
What  gave  this  hero  his  most  special  grace, 
That  for  his  memory,  in  the  years  to  come, 
Shall  speak  more  loud  than  voice  of  gun  or  drum. 

133 


ROWEN 

Great  was  his  soul  in  fight.     But  you  and  I, 
Friend,  if  need  be,  can  set  a  face  to  die. 
This  land  of  ours  has  lovers  now  as  then, 
Nor  shall  time  coming  find  her  poor  in  men, 
While  the  strong  blood  of  our  old  Saxon  strain 
Fires  at  the  sound  of  war  in  pulse  and  vein. 

But  this  great  warrior  was  in  Peace  more  great, 
More  noble  in  his  fealty  to  the  state, 
More  fine  in  service,  in  a  subtler  way 
Meeting  the  vital  duty  of  the  day; 
Patient  and  calm,  too  simply  proud  to  strive 
To  keep  the  glory  of  his  past  alive. 
So  burns  it  still,  and  shall  burn.     Every  year 
Of  that  high  service  made  him  but  more  dear, 
More  trusted,  more  revered.     No  lust  of  power 
Led  him  to  lengthen  out  the  battle  hour; 
He  sought  no  office;  he  would  learn  no  art 
To  serve  him  at  the  polls  or  in  the  mart; 
And  yet  he  loved  the  people,  nor  did  pride 
Lead  him  from  common  joys  and  cares  aside. 
His  kindly,  homely,  grizzled  face  looked  down 
On  all  the  merrymaking  of  the  town  — 
A  face  that  we  shall  miss:  we  all  were  proud 
When  the  Old  General  smiled  upon  the  crowd. 
So  lived,  so  died  he.     Has  a  great  man  passed 
And  left  a  life  more  whole  unto  the  last? 

Upon  the  soldier's  coffin  let  this  wreath 

Tell  of  his  greatest  greatness,  sword-in-sheath. 


139 


LEOPOLD  DAMROSGH 

FEBRUARY  15,  1885 

WAKED  at  the  waving  of  thy  hand,  so  near 
Came  music  to  the  language  of  the  soul  - 
Not  viol  alone,  or  flute:  an  ordered  whole, 
That  with  one  voice  spoke  to  us,  subtly  clear  — 
So  near  it  came  to  all  that  life  holds  dear, 
So  full  it  was  of  messages  that  stole 
Silently  to  the  spirit  —  of  the  roll 
Of  thunders  that  the  heart  leaped  up  to  hear  — 
That  we,  who  look  upon  the  fallen  hand 
That  shall  not  rise  for  music's  sake  again 

Upon  this  earth  —  we,  lingering,  well  may  deem 
Thee  glad  with  a  great  joy,  to  understand, 
At  last,  the  full  and  all-revealing  strain 

That  tells  what  earthly  music  may  but  dream. 


140 


J.  B. 

JUNE  7,  1880 

THE  Actor  's  dead,  and  memory  alone 
Recalls  the  genial  magic  of  his  tone; 
Marble  nor  canvas  nor  the  printed  page 
Shall  tell  his  genius  to  another  age: 
A  memory,  doomed  to  dwindle  less  and  less, 
His  world-wide  fame  shrinks  to  this  littleness. 
Yet  if,  a  half  a  century  from  to-day, 
A  tender  smile  about  our  old  lips  play, 
And  if  our  grandchild  query  whence  it  came, 
We  '11  say:  "A  thought  of  Brougham."  - 

And  that  is  Fame ! 


141 


I  serve  with  love  a  goodly  craft, 
And  proud  thereat  am  I; 

And,  if  I  do  but  work  aright, 
Shall  never  wholly  die. 


MY  SHAKSPERE 

WITH  beveled  binding,  with  uncut  edge, 

With  broad  white  margin  and  gilded  top, 

Fit  for  my  library's  choicest  ledge, 

Fresh  from  the  bindery,  smelling  of  shop, 

In  tinted  cloth,  with  a  strange  design  — 

Buskin  and  scroll-work  and  mask  and  crown, 
And  an  arabesque  legend  tumbling  down  — 

"The  Works  of  Shakspere"  were  never  so  fine. 

Fresh  from  the  shop !  I  turn  the  page  — 
Its  "  ample  margin "  is  wide  and  fair, 
Its  type  is  chosen  with  daintiest  care; 
There's  a  "New  French  Elzevir"  strutting  there 

That  would  shame  its  prototypic  age. 

Fresh  from  the  shop !     O  Shakspere  mine, 

I  Ve  half  a  notion  you  're  much  too  fine ! 

There  's  an  ancient  volume  that  I  recall, 
In  foxy  leather  much  chafed  and  worn; 

Its  back  is  broken  by  many  a  fall, 

The  stitches  are  loose  and  the  leaves  are  torn; 

And  gone  is  the  bastard  title,  next 

To  the  title-page  scribbled  with  owners'  names, 
That  in  straggling  old-style  type  proclaims 

That  the  work  is  from  the  corrected  text 
Left  by  the  late  Geo.  Steevens,  Esquire. 

HS 


ROWEN 

The  broad  sky  burns  like  a  great  blue  fire, 
And  the  Lake  shines  blue  as  shimmering  steel, 

And  it  cuts  the  horizon  like  a  blade; 

And  behind  the  poplar  's  a  strip  of  shade  — 

The  great  tall  Lombardy  on  the  lawn. 
And,  lying  there  in  the  grass,  I  feel 

The  wind  that  blows  from  the  Canada  shore, 

And  in  cool,  sweet  puffs  comes  stealing  o'er, 

Fresh  as  any  October  dawn. 

I  lie  on  my  breast  in  the  grass,  my  feet 
Lifted  boy-fashion,  and  swinging  free, 
The  old  brown  Shakspere  in  front  of  me. 

And  big  are  my  eyes,  and  my  heart 's  a-beat; 

And  my  whole  soul 's  lost  —  in  what  ?  —  who  knows  ? 

Perdita's  charms  or  Perdita's  woes  — 

Perdita  fairy-like,  fair  and  sweet. 

Is  any  one  jealous,  I  wonder,  now, 

Of  my  love  for  Perdita  ?     For  I  vow 

I  loved  her  well.     And  who  can  say 

That  life  would  be  quite  the  same  life  to-day  — 

That  Love  would  mean  so  much,  if  she 

Had  not  taught  me  its  ABC? 

The  Grandmother,  thin  and  bent  and  old, 

But  her  hair  still  dark  and  her  eyes  still  bright, 

Totters  around  among  the  flowers  — 
Old-fashioned  flowers  of  pink  and  white; 
And  turns  with  a  trowel  the  dark  rich  mold 

That  feeds  the  blooms  of  her  heart's  delight. 
Ah  me !  for  her  and  for  me  the  hours 
146 


ROWEN 

Go  by,  and  for  her  the  smell  of  earth  — 
And  for  me  the  breeze  and  a  far  love's  birth, 
And  the  sun  and  the  sky  and  all  the  things 
That  a  boy's  heart  hopes  and  a  poet  sings. 

Fresh  from  the  shop !     O  Shakspere  mine, 
It  was  n't  the  binding  made  you  divine ! 
I  knew  you  first  in  a  foxy  brown, 
In  the  old,  old  home,  where  I  laid  me  down, 

In  the  idle  summer  afternoons, 
With  you  alone  in  the  odorous  grass, 

And  set  your  thoughts  to  the  wind's  low  tunes, 
And  saw  your  children  rise  up  and  pass  — 
And  dreamed  and  dreamed  of  the  things  to  be, 
Known  only,  I  think,  to  you  and  me. 

I  Ve  hardly  a  heart  for  you  dressed  so  fine  — 
Fresh  from  the  shop,  0  Shakspere  mine ! 


147 


ON    SEEING    MAURICE    LELOIR'S 

ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  STERNE'S 

"SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY" 

LELOIR,  what  kinship  lies  between  you  two  — 
This  century- vanished  Englishman  and  you  ?  — 
You  who  can  lead  us,  grateful  in  surprise, 
All  that  he  saw  to  see  with  trusting  eyes  — 
Nay,  at  your  beck  his  head  peeps,  gaunt  and  hoar, 
Out  of  the  window  in  the  po'chaise  door. 

Is  it  not  this:  birth  made  him  of  your  race 
(Though  Clonmel  and  not  Calais  were  the  place,) 
If  heart  and  fancy  be  the  best  of  birth? 

Some  day,  Leloir,  your  spirit,  freed  from  earth, 

Walking  that  special  heaven  set  apart 

For  those  who  made  religion  of  their  art, 

Will  meet  this  elder  friend,  and  he  will  turn 

And  speak  to  you  in  French  —  this  Laurence  Sterne. 


148 


TO  A  READER  OF  THE  XXIST  CENTURY 

You,  when  you  read  this  book,  shall  find 
How  You  or  We  have  fallen  behind. 
Where'er  you  be,  I  know  you  not; 
But,  if  my  memory  be  forgot, 
Remember,  proud  of  life  and  thought 
Though  You  may  strut,  /  hold  you  naught. 
You  are  not  yet  —  you  may  be  —  still, 
How  do  I  know  you  ever  will  ? 

But  yet  I  hope,  in  future  days, 

You  may  exist,  to  cast  your  gaze 

Round  some  old  bibliomaniac's  room, 

Shrouded  in  sober  russet  gloom, 

And  let  it  fall  upon  this  book; 

Then  turn  this  page  —  I  '11  catch  your  look. 

Aye !  though  the  while  this  line  you  read 
A  coverlet  of  daisy  brede 
Shall  lie  my  old-time  bed  above 
And  all  that  was  my  life  and  love; 
I  speak  to  you  from  out  a  day 
When  /,  not  You,  can  see  the  Play, 
And  find  the  stage's  mimicry 
More  real  than  are  You  to  Me. 
When  blood  went  slipping  through  this  heart, 
I  saw  it  all  —  I  was  a  part. 
149 


ROWEN 

This  is  our  day  —  you  turn  the  page, 

And  see  the  pictures  of  our  age. 

"A  treasure!"  cries  your  bibliopole, 

With  fervor  in  his  musty  soul: 

"  A  Daly  private  print  —  a  chaste 

Example  of  our  fathers'  taste. 

They  made  books  then  —  who  can,  in  our 

Degenerate  days  of  —  magnet  —  power? 

See  —  Ada  Rehan,  Fisher,  Drew, 

Dame  Gilbert,  Lewis  —  through  and  through 

The  sharp-cut  plates  are  clear  as  new!" 

Then  comes  the  old,  the  tardy  praise  — 

"Those  were  the  drama's  palmy  days." 

But  We?    You  '11  see  the  shadow  —  now 

To  us  these  living  creatures  bow, 

For  us  they  smile  —  for  us  they  feign 

Or  love  or  hatred,  joy  or  pain; 

For  us  this  white  breast  heaves  —  this  voice 

Makes  hearts  too  young  too  much  rejoice; 

For  us  those  splendid  eyes  are  lit; 

For  us  awakes  embodied  wit; 

For  us  the  music  and  the  light  — 

The  listening  faces,  flushed  and  bright; 

The  glow,  the  passion,  and  the  dream  — 

To  you  —  how  far  it  all  must  seem  ! 

You  know  the  names  —  but  we  behold, 
In  sweet  old  age  that  is  not  old, 
Though  Time  play  tricks  with  face  and  hair, 
Our  Gentlewoman  past  compare. 
150 


ROWEN 

We  see  her  deftly  thread  the  set 

Old  figures  of  the  minuet; 

We  see  her  Partner's  snow-crowned  face 

Bent  o'er  her  hand  in  antique  grace. 

You  know  the  names  —  before  our  eyes 
Proud  Katherine's  anger  flames  and  dies; 
For  us  Petruchio  pays  his  court; 
For  us  the  high  tempestuous  port, 
Lowered  at  last  in  humble,  sweet 
Submission  at  a  husband's  feet. 
You  know  the  names  —  but  ah !  who  hears 
The  laughter  when  one  face  appears? 

You  know  the  names  —  but  what  are  they? 
We  know  the  folk  that  make  the  Play ! 
Love's  merry  Up,  Love's  doleful  Down, 
The  fickle  fashion  of  the  town 
Take  form  and  shape  for  us,  and  show 
To  heart  and  eye  the  world  we  know. 

You  have  the  pictures,  and  the  names 
That  are  but  Yours  as  they  are  Fame's; 
See  them,  0  dim  Potential  Shade, 
Even  as  we  see  them  now  arrayed: 
Try  to  put  nature's  vital  hue 
Into  the  faces  that  you  view; 
And  think,  while  Fancy  labors  thus, 
This  all  is  breathing  Life  to  Us. 


FOR  AN  OLD  POET 

WHEN  he  is  old  and  past  all  singing, 
Grant,  kindly  Time,  that  he  may  hear 

The  rhythm  through  joyous  Nature  ringing, 
Uncaught  by  any  duller  ear. 

Grant  that,  in  memory's  deeps  still  cherished, 
Once  more  may  murmur  low  to  him 

The  winds  that  sung  in  years  long  perished, 
Lit  by  the  suns  of  days  grown  dim. 

Grant  that  the  hours  when  first  he  listened 
To  bird-songs  manhood  may  not  know, 

In  fields  whose  dew  for  lovers  glistened, 
May  come  back  to  him  ere  he  go. 

Grant  only  this,  0  Time  most  kindly, 
That  he  may  hear  the  song  you  sung 

When  love  was  new  —  and,  harkening  blindly, 
Feign  his  o'er-wearied  spirit  young. 

With  sound  of  rivers  singing  round  him, 
On  waves  that  long  since  flowed  away, 

Oh,  leave  him,  Time,  where  first  Love  found  him, 
Dreaming  To-morrow  in  To-day ! 


152 


WILKIE  COLLINS 

SEPTEMBER  23,  1889 

WHEN  Arabs  sat  around 

And  heard  the  Thousand  Nights  — 
Beyond  the  tent's  close  bound, 

Beyond  the  watch-fire  lights  — 
Their  believing  spirits  flew 

To  a  land  where  strange  things  seem 
As  simple  things  and  true, 

And  the  best  truth  is  a  dream. 

And  when  the  tale  was  told  — 

Genie  and  Princess  fair 
Brought  to  an  end  —  their  gold 

They  sought,  with  an  absent  air; 
And  dropped  it  at  His  feet 

Who  had  led  to  the  land  of  Delight; 
And,  dreaming  of  Princesses  sweet, 

They  passed  out  into  the  night. 

So,  still  under  your  spell, 

Teller  of  magic  tales, 
These  lines  I  would  fain  let  tell 

The  debt  whose  payment  fails. 
Take  them:  if  they  were  gold 

'T  would  but  discharge  a  due  — 
And,  for  the  tales  you  told, 

I  shall  remember  you. 

153 


FOR  C.  J.  T.,  CONCERNING  A.  D. 

HERE  shall  you  see  the  sweetest  mind 
That  loves  our  simpler  humankind: 
The  things  that  touch  your  heart  and  mine 
He  knows  by  sympathy  so  fine 
That  he,  an  alien,  over  sea, 
Partner  in  our  best  thought  can  be. 
Not  the  ATLANTIC'S  swell  and  moan 
Can  part  his  fancy  from  our  own. 
****** 

See  but  a  child  with  wistful  eyes 

THE  DOCTOR'S  gloomy  windows  rise, 

And  that  sad  comedy  is  played 

That  makes  us  love  one  little  maid: 

See  the  kind  face  we  children  knew, 

And  PRUDENCE  is  our  "Aunty,"  too; 

Think  of  the  madcap  loves  of  youth, 

And  think  of  BELL,  LOUISE,  and  RUTH: 

Think  of  the  loves  not  Love,  alas ! 

And  of  ROSINE  in  Mont  Parnasse: 

Dream  of  the  things  most  sweet  and  true 

That  your  best  moments  bring  to  you, 

And  find  this  gentle  Poet's  art 

Voices  the  thought  that  stirred  your  heart. 


IS4 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

THOUGH  to  his  song  the  reeds  respondent  rustle 

That  cradled  Pan  what  time  all  song  was  young, 
Though  in  a  new  world  city's  restless  bustle 

He  sounds  a  lyre  in  fields  Sicilian  strung; 
Though  his  the  power  the  days  of  old  to  waken, 

Though  Nature's  melody  's  as  clear  to  him 
As  ere  of  dryads  were  the  woods  forsaken, 

And  the  fresh  world  of  myth  grew  faint  and  dim  — 
A  dearer  grace  is  his  when  men's  eyes  glisten 

With  closer  sympathies  his  page  above, 
And  near  his  spirit  draws  to  hearts  that  listen 

The  song  that  sweetly  rounds  with  Home  and  Love. 

NEW  YORK,  December  10,  1884. 


155 


AN  EPISTLE 

To  MASTER  BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  WRITER,  ON  THE 
OCCASION  OF  HIS  PUTTING  FORTH  A  BOOK 

ENTITLED    "PEN  AND   INK" 

NEW  LONDON,  CONN.,  SEPT.  10,  1888. 
Dear  Brander: 

I  have  known  thee  long,  and  found 
Thee  wise  in  council,  and  of  judgment  sound; 
Steadfast  in  friendship ,  sound  and  clear  in  wit, 
And  more  in  virtues  than  may  here  be  writ. 
But  most  I  joy,  in  these  machine-made  days, 
To  see  thee  constant  in  a  craftsman's  ways; 
That  the  plain  tool  that  knew  thy  'prentice  hand 
Gathers  no  rust  upon  thy  writing-stand; 
That  no  Invention  saves  the  labor  due 
To  any  Task  that  's  worth  the  going  through; 
That  now  when  butter  snubs  the  stranger  churn, 
Plain  pen  and  ink  still  serve  a  writer's  turn. 
Though  I,  more  firmly  orthodox,  still  hold, 
In  dire  default  of  quills,  to  steel  or  gold, 
And  though  thy  pen  be  rubber  —  let  it  pass  — 
A  breath  of  blemish  on  thy  soul's  clear  glass. 

There  is  no  "writing  fluid"  in  thy  pot, 
But  honest  ink  of  nutgall  brew,  God  wot! 
Thou  dost  not  an  electric  needle  ply, 
And,  like  a  housewife  with  an  apple-pie, 

156 


ROWEN 

Prick  thy  fair  page  into  a  stencil-plate  — 

Then  daub  with  lampblack  for  a  duplicate. 

Nor  thine  the  sloven  page  whereon  the  shirk 

With  the  rough  tool  attempts  the  finished  work, 

And  introduces  to  the  sight  of  men 

The  Valet  Pencil  for  the  Master  Pen. 

Not  all  like  thee,  in  this  uneasy  age, 

When  more  by  trick  than  toil  we  earn  our  wage! 

Here  by  the  sea  a  gentle  poet  dwells, 

And  in  fair  leisure  weaves  his  magic  spells; 

And  yet  doth  dare  with  countenance  serene 

To  weave  them  on  a  tinkling  steel  machine. 

Where  an  impertinent  and  soulless  bell 

Rings,  at  each  finished  line,  a  jangling  knell. 

The  muse  and  I,  we  love  him,  and  I  think 

She  may  forgive  his  slight  to  pen  and  ink, 

And  let  no  dull  mechanic  cam  or  cog 

The  lightsome  movement  of  his  metres  clog; 

But  oh!    I  grieve  to  see  his  fingers  toy 

With  this  base  slave  in  dalliance  close  and  coy, 

While  in  his  standish  dries  the  atrid  spring 

Where  hides  the  shyer  muse  that  loves  to  sing. 

Give  me  the  old-time  ink,  black,  flowing,  free, 

And  give,  oh,  give!  the  old  goose-quill  to  me  — 

The  goose-quill,  whispering  of  humility. 

It  whispers  to  the  bard:  "Fly  not  too  high! 

You  flap  your  wings  —  remember,  so  could  I. 

I  cackled  in  my  life-time,  it  is  true; 

But  yet  again  remember,  so  do  You. 

And  there  were  some  things  possible  to  me 

That  possible  to  you  will  never  be. 

157 


ROWEN 

I  stood  for  hours  on  one  columnar  leg, 
And,  if  my  sex  were  such,  could  lay  an  egg. 
Oh,  well  for  you,  if  you  could  thus  beget 
Material  for  your  morning  omelette; 
Or,  if  things  came  to  such  a  desperate  pass. 
You  could  in  calm  contentment  nibble  grass! 
Conceited  bard!  and  can  you  sink  to  rest 
Upon  the  feather- pillow  of  your  breast  ?  " 

Hold,  my  dear  Brander,  to  your  pot  of  ink: 
The  muse  sits  poised  upon  that  fountain's  brink. 
And  that  you  long  may  live  to  hold  a  pen 
I  'II  breathe  a  prayer; 

The  world  will  say  "Amen!" 


158 


ON  READING  CERTAIN  PUBLISHED 
LETTERS  OF  W.  M.  T. 

IT  is  as  though  the  gates  of  heaven  swung, 
Once  only,  backward,  and  a  spirit  shone 

Upon  us,  with  a  face  to  which  there  clung 

Naught  of  that  mortal  veil  which  sore  belies, 
But  looked  such  love  from  such  high-changed  eyes, 

That,  even  from  earth,  we  knew  them  for  his  own. 

Knew  them  for  his,  and  marveled;  for  he  came 
Among  us,  and  went  from  us,  and  we  knew 

Only  the  smoke  and  ash  that  hid  the  flame, 
Only  the  cloak  and  vestment  of  his  soul; 
And  knew  his  priesthood  only  by  his  stole  — 

And,  thus  unknown,  he  went  his  journey  through. 

Yet  there  were  some  who  knew  him,  though  his  face 
Was  never  seen  by  them;  although  his  hand 

Lay  never  warm  in  theirs,  they  yet  had  grace 
To  see,  past  all  misjudgment;  his  true  heart 
Throbbed  for  them  in  the  creatures  of  his  art, 

And  they  could  read  his  words,  and  understand. 

All  men  may  know  him  now,  and  know  how  kind 
The  hand  in  chastisement  so  sure  and  strong  - 

All  men  may  know  him  now,  and  dullards  blind 
Into  the  secrets  of  his  soul  may  see; 
And  all  shall  love  —  but,  Steadfast  Greatheart,  we, 

We  knew  thee  when  the  wide  world  did  thee  wrong. 

IS9 


Says  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  "It's  a  fine  world  there" ; 

But  he  wonders  how  it  can  please  us 
To  walk  with  our  heads  hanging  down  in  the  air  — 

For  that  is  the  way  he  sees  us. 


GHAKEY  EINSTEIN 

PHARAOH,  King  of  Egypt's  land, 

Held  you  in  his  cruel  hand, 

Till  the  Appointed  of  the  Lord 

Led  you  forth  and  drowned  his  horde. 

Cushan,  Eglon's  Moabites, 

Jabin,  then  the  Midianites, 

Ammonite  and  Philistine 

Held  you,  by  decree  divine. 

Shishak  spoiled  you  —  but  the  list 

Fades  in  dim  tradition's  mist  — 

And  on  history's  page  we  see 

One  long  tale  of  misery, 

Century  after  century  through  — 

Chains  and  lashes  for  the  Jew. 

Haman  and  Antiochus, 

Herod,  Roman  Socius, 

Spoiled  you,  crushed  you,  various  ways, 

Till  the  dawn  of  Christian  days; 

Since  which  time  your  wrongs  and  shame 

Have  remained  about  the  same. 

Whipped  and  chained,  your  teeth  pulled  out; 

English  cat  and  Russian  knout 

Made  familiar  with  your  back  — 

When  you  were  n't  upon  the  rack  — 

Marked  for  scorn  of  Christian  men; 

Pilfered,  taxed,  and  taxed  again; 

163 


ROWEN 

Pilloried,  prisoned,  burnt  and  stoned, 
Stripped  of  even  the  clothes  you  owned; 
Child  of  Torture,  Son  of  Shame, 
Robbed  of  even  a  father's  name  — 
In  this  year  of  Christian  grace, 
What 's  your  state  and  what 's  your  place  ? 
Why  you  're  rich  and  strong  and  gay  — 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway ! 

Myriad  signs  along  the  street 
Israelitish  names  repeat. 
Lichtenstein  and  Morgenroth 
Sell  the  pants  and  sell  the  coat; 
Minzesheimer,  Isaacs,  Meyer, 
Levy,  Lehman,  Simon,  Speyer  — 
These  may  just  suggest  a  few 
Specimens  of  Broadway  Jew  — 
And  these  gentlemen  have  made 
Quite  their  own  the  Dry-gootz  Trade. 
Surely  you  're  on  top  to-day, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway. 

Fat  and  rich  you  are,  and  loud: 
Fond  of  being  in  a  crowd; 
Fond  of  diamonds  and  rings; 
Fond  of  haberdashers'  things; 
Fond  of  color,  fond  of  noise; 
Fond  of  treating  "owl  der  boys" 
(Yet,  it  's  only  fair  to  state, 
For  yourself,  most  temperate); 
Fond  of  women,  fond  of  song; 
164 


ROWEN 

Fond  of  bad  cigars,  and  strong; 
Fond,  too  much,  of  Brighton's  Race 
(Where  you  're  wholly  out  of  place, 
For  no  Jew  in  Time's  long  course 
Knew  one  thing  about  a  horse); 
Fond  of  life,  and  fond  of  fun 
(Once  your  "beezness"  wholly  done); 
Open-handed,  generous,  free, 
Full  of  Christian  charity 
(Far  more  full  than  he  who  pokes 
At  your  avarice  his  jokes); 
Fond  of  friends,  and  ever  kind 
To  the  sick  and  lame  and  blind 
(And,  though  loud  you  else  may  be, 
Silent  in  your  charity); 
Fond  of  Mrs.  Einstein  and 
Her  too-numerous  infant  band, 
Ever  willing  they  should  share 
Your  enjoyment  everywhere  — 
What  of  you  is  left  to  say, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway? 

Though  you  're  spurned  in  some  hotels, 

You  have  kin  among  the  swells  — 

Great  musicians,  poets  true, 

Painters,  singers  not  a  few, 

Own  their  cousinship  to  you: 

And  all  England,  so  they  say, 

Yearly  blooms  on  Primrose  Day 

All  in  memory  of  a  Jew 

Of  the  self-same  race  as  you; 

165 


ROWEN 

Greatest  leader  ever  known 
Since  the  Queen  came  to  her  throne; 
Bismarck's  only  equal  foe, 
With  a  thrust  for  every  blow, 
One  who  rose  from  place  to  place 
To  lead  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
One  whose  statecraft  wise  and  keen 
Made  an  Empress  of  a  Queen  — 
You  Ve  your  share  in  Primrose  Day, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway ! 

Well,  good  friend,  we  look  at  you 
And  behold  the  Conquering  Jew: 
In  despite  of  all  the  years 
Filled  with  agonies  and  fears; 
In  despite  of  stake  and  chain; 
In  despite  of  Rome  and  Spain; 
'Spite  of  prison,  rack,  and  lash, 
You  are  here,  and  you  Ve  the  cash: 
You  are  Trade's  uncrowned  king  — 
You  are  mostly  everything  — 
Only  one  small  joke,  O  Jew ! 
Has  the  Christian  world  on  you  — 
When  your  son,  your  first-born  boy, 
Solomon,  your  fond  heart's  joy, 
Grows  to  manhood's  years,  he  '11  wed 
One  a  Christian  born  and  bred; 
Blue  of  blood,  of  lineage  old, 
Who  will  take  him  for  his  gold  — 
That 's  not  all  —  so  far  the  joke 
Is  upon  the  Christian  folk. 
166 


ROWEN 

But,  dear  Chakey,  when  he  goes 

In  his  proper  Sabbath  clo'es, 

To  the  House  of  Worship,  he 

And  his  little  family, 

He  will  pass  the  synagogue, 

And  upon  his  way  will  jog 

To  a  Church,  wherein  his  pew 

Will  bear  a  name  unknown  to  you  — 

One  quite  unknown  in  old  B'nai  B'rith 

Eynston  maybe  —  maybe  Smith. 

That  Js  just  as  sure  as  day  is  day  — 

Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway ! 


167 


A  FABLE  FOR  RULERS 

(FROM  THE  FRENCH) 

A  KING  of  Persia,  once  upon  a  day, 
Rode  with  his  courtiers  to  the  chase  away. 
Thirst  o'ertook  him  in  a  desert  plain, 
Where  he  sought  a  cooling  fount  in  vain. 
Last  he  chanced  upon  a  garden  fine, 
Rich  in  luscious  orange,  grape,  and  pine: 
"God  forbid  my  thirst  I  slake!" 
Quoth  he,  "for  the  owner's  sake. 
For  if  to  pluck  one  single  fruit  I  dare, 
These  my  viziers  will  lay  the  garden  bare." 


168 


BISMARCK  SOLILOQUIZES 

THE  German  Emperor  —  that 's  his  title  —  not 
The  one  that  (thanks  to  me)  his  Grandsire  got  - 
Emperor  of  Germany  served  his  father's  turn; 
'T  will  not  serve  his.     Well,  well,  we  live  and  learn. 
I,  in  my  age,  have  learned  one  certain  thing: 
Who  makes  a  king  shall  perish  by  a  king. 

What  else  should  come  of  making  kings?     The  best 

Is  but  a  Policy  in  purple  drest. 

I  hatched  this  Policy  within  my  brain: 

But  shall  it  hatch  a  Policy  again? 

I  made  an  Emperor;  made  his  heir,  and  he 

Has  made  an  Emperor  to  make  mock  of  me. 

Is  this  the  way  God  laughs  at  men?  to  spoil 
Their  work,  and  bring  to  nothingness  their  toil? 
To  give  the  seed,  the  wit  to  make  it  grow, 
Patience  to  nurse  this  tree  till  blossoms  blow, 
To  lend  the  fatness  of  the  labored  land, 
And  turn  the  fruit  to  dust  within  the  hand? 
If  so  —  His  ways  shall  not  be  understood  — 
Let  me  laugh,  too.     Surely  the  jest  is  good. 
I  have  time  for  laughing  now.     In  days  gone  by 
We  had  no  laughing- times,  my  kings  and  I: 
Nor  did  I  dream  such  gratitude  was  theirs 
To  save  my  latter  years  from  statecraft's  cares, 
169 


ROWEN 

And  let  me  sit  in  calm  retirement  down 

To  watch  a  youthful  Emperor  play  the  clown ! 

Right  well  you  play  it,  William  mine  —  how  well, 
It  takes  a  critic  old  as  I  to  tell. 
No  madder  jest  a  merry  mind  could  plan 
Than  Kings  coquetting  with  the  Laboring  Man. 
A  gay  conceit,  indeed,  it  seems  to  me  — 
That  Congress,  summoned  by  your  high  degree 
To  view  the  woes  of  man,  and  find  a  cure 
For  you  to  guarantee  as  swift  and  sure. 
Nor  did  your  humor  miss  a  happy  chance 
When  you  dispatched  your  Mother  into  France. 
Of  course,  to  give  the  joke  its  subtle  sting, 
A  Grandmother  would  be  the  proper  thing. 
Still,  't  was  amusing  —  and  instructive,  since 
It  shows  just  what  can  make  a  Frenchman  wince, 
Make  his  lip  quiver  and  his  thin  cheek  blanch  — 
A  conqueror's  widow  with  an  olive  branch. 
Oh,  had  she  gone  —  the  jest  to  carry  through  — 
To  see  if  sparks  still  lingered  at  St.  Cloud ! 
Play  your  game  out,  boy:  I  will  look  and  laugh. 
Thresh  over  the  poor  wheat  I  threshed  to  chaff. 
Learn  the  hard  lesson  I  so  long  have  known, 
That  steel 's  the  only  metal  for  a  throne. 
You  are  —  your  guns,  and  nothing  else  on  earth, 
Except  the  brutal  accident  of  birth. 
Think  you  the  golden  years  will  come  again 
When  the  poor  peasants,  fleeing  from  the  plain, 
Huddled  beneath  the  castle  walls,  stretched  hands 
To  pray  the  War  Lord  to  protect  their  lands 
170 


ROWEN 

Against  the  alien  plunderer,  kissed  the  sod, 

And  thought  him  regent  of  Almighty  God? 

Why,  child,  that  dogma  of  your  heaven-sent  right 

Is,  in  this  day,  a  mere  excuse  polite 

For  owning  cannon;  and  the  more  you  own 

The  more  divine  your  right  is  to  the  throne. 

Think  you  these  people  whose  intelligence 

Fills  you  with  proud  paternal  confidence 

Have  learned  —  you  let  them  learn  —  to  write  and  read, 

To  find  out  ways  of  bettering  their  breed  — 

Yet  hold  themselves  still  made  for  you  to  bleed? 

And  does  the  spider  educate  the  fly, 

Teaching  him:  "By  this  belly  know  that  I 

Can  chain  you;  this  my  glittering  web  is  set 

To  hold  your  feet  fast  in  a  sticky  net. 

So,  now,  walk  in,  I  pray.     Divinest  Right 

Has  given  me  a  pretty  appetite!" 

Madman  and  babe  —  you  send  your  fly  to  school; 

And  then  expect  your  fly  to  be  your  fool ! 

Play  on,  play  on!     /  kept  your  "right"  alive; 
I  made  a  medieval  dogma  thrive 
On  barren  modern  soil;  but  my  War  Lord 
In  one  hand  bore  a  whip;  in  one  a  sword. 
His  Right  men  held  Divine;  his  title  clear  — 
Through  gratitude  ?  through  love  ?  —  hope  ?  — 

Fool !  through  Fear ! 


171 


IMITATION 

MY  love  she  leans  from  the  window 

Afar  in  a  rosy  land; 
And  red  as  a  rose  are  her  blushes, 

And  white  as  a  rose  her  hand. 

And  the  roses  cluster  around  her, 
And  mimic  her  tender  grace; 

And  nothing  but  roses  can  blossom 
Wherever  she  shows  her  face. 

I  dwell  in  a  land  of  winter, 

From  my  love  a  world  apart  — 

But  the  snow  blooms  over  with  roses 
At  the  thought  of  her  in  my  heart. 

****** 

This  German  style  of  poem 

Is  uncommonly  popular  now; 

For  the  worst  of  us  poets  can  do  it  — 
Since  Heine  showed  us  how. 


172 


"MAGDALENA" 

SAT  we  'neath  the  dark  verandah, 

Years  and  years  ago; 
And  I  softly  pressed  a  hand  a 

Deal  more  white  than  snow. 
And  I  cast  aside  my  reina, 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  I  read  her  "Magdalena," 

While  she  smoothed  her  Spanish  lace 
Read  her  Waller's  "Magdalena"  - 

She  had  Magdalena's  grace. 
Read  her  of  the  Spanish  duel, 
Of  the  brother,  courtly,  cruel, 
Who  between  the  British  wooer 

And  the  Seville  lady  came; 
How  her  lover  promptly  slew  her 

Brother,  and  then  fled  in  shame  — 
How  he  dreamed,  in  long  years  after, 
Of  the  river's  rippling  laughter  — 

Of  the  love  he  used  to  know 
In  the  myrtle- curtained  villa 
Near  the  city  of  Se villa 

Years  and  years  ago. 

Ah,  how  warmly  was  I  reading, 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  face ! 
And  my  voice  took  tones  of  pleading, 

For  I  sought  to  win  her  grace. 

173 


ROWEN 

Surely,  thought  I,  in  her  veins 
Runs  some  drop  of  foreign  strains  — 
There  is  something  half  Castilian 
In  that  lip  that  shames  vermilion; 
In  that  mass  of  raven  tresses, 
Tossing  like  a  falcon's  jesses; 
In  that  eye  with  trailing  lashes, 
And  its  witching  upward  flashes  — 

Such,  indeed,  I  know, 
Shone  where  Guadalquivir  plashes 

Years  and  years  ago. 

Looking  in  her  face  I  read  it  — 

How  the  metre  trips !  — 
And  the  god  of  lovers  sped  it 

On  my  happy  lips  - 
All  those  words  of  mystic  sweetness 
Spoke  I  with  an  airy  neatness, 
As  I  never  had  before  — 
As  I  cannot  speak  them  more  — 
Reja,  plaza,  and  mantilla, 
"No  palabras"  and  Se villa, 
Caballero  and  sombrero, 
And  duenna  and  Duero, 
Spada,  senor,  sabe  Dios  — 
Smooth  as  pipe  of  Melibceus  — 
Ah,  how  very  well  I  read  it, 

Looking  in  her  lovely  eyes ! 
When  't  was  o'er,  I  looked  for  credit, 

As  she  softly  moved  to  rise. 
*  *  *  *  * 

174 


ROWEN 

Doting  dream,  ah,  dream  fallacious  — 

Years  and  years  ago  !  - 
For  she  only  said:  "My  gracious  - 

What  a  lot  of  French  you  know !" 


I7S 


May  the  light  of  some  morning  skies 
In  days  when  the  sun  knew  how  to  rise, 
Stay  with  my  spirit  until  I  go 
To  be  the  boy  that  I  used  to  know. 


"ONE,  TWO,  THREE!" 

IT  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  that  was  half -past  three; 

And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  could  n't  go  running  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 

With  a  thin  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple- tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I  '11  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you  'd  never  have  known  it  to  be 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he  'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three ! 


179 


ROWEN 

"You  are  in  the  china-closet!" 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee  — 

It  was  n't  the  china-closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"You  are  up  in  Papa's  big  bedroom, 

In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key ! " 

And  she  said:  "You  are  warm  and  warmer; 
But  you'  re  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  Mama's  things  used  to  be  — 

So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma!" 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  ringers, 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 
Right  under  the  maple-tree  — 

This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee  — 

This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 


1 80 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP 

Air:  The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 

I  KNOW  a  shop,  and  a  funny  little  shop, 

In  a  street  that  lies  anigh; 
And  I  saw  the  sign  set  on  the  door, 

One  day  as  I  went  by. 
And  oh !  it  was  so  poor  and  small 

I  could  not  help  but  stop, 
As  you  would  stop,  if  you  should  come 

On  such  a  little  shop. 

I  went  inside,  and  found  a  little  boy, 

Far  older,  I  am  sure,  than  I; 
He  said  to  me:  "Kind  sir,  what  toy 

Will  you  kindly  be  pleased  to  buy?" 
And  I  bought  a  horse  that  was  painted  so  red 

As  never  was  charger  yet; 
One  penny,  one  penny  was  all  I  paid 

That  splendid  horse  to  get. 

For  pity  of  them  that  were  so  poor 

I  bought  me  a  host  of  things: 
A  Noah's  Ark  without  a  roof; 

A  dove  without  its  wings; 
A  little  trumpet  made  of  tin, 

That  cost  a  single  cent  - 
And  all  the  time  that  little  boy 

Knew  just  how  my  money  went. 
181 


ROWEN 

He  was,  oh !  so  old,  this  funny  little  boy, 

And  so  sober  and  so  kind: 
He  sold  a  five-cent  doll  for  three, 

Because  one  eye  was  blind. 
And,  oh !  how  proud  he  was  to  sell 

Each  poor  and  petty  toy, 
For  he  was  left  to  keep  the  shop, 

This  poor  little  old-time  boy. 

There  is  a  babe,  and  a  well-beloved  babe, 

A  babe  that  belongs  to  me; 
I  brought  her  home  these  penny  toys 

To  deck  her  Christmas  tree. 
And  on  that  Christmas  tree  there  hung 

A  world  of  trifles  fair, 
For  all  the  folk  that  love  her  well 

Had  set  their  kindness  there. 

But  of  all  the  toys,  of  all  the  many  toys, 

Was  naught  that  pleased  her  mind 
Except  the  trumpet  made  of  tin, 

And  the  doll  with  one  eye  blind. 
And  best  of  all  that  Christmas  brought, 

She  held  one  little  toy 
That  I  bought  for  a  cent  in  the  little  shop, 

To  please  that  aged  boy. 


182 


GRANDFATHER  WATTS'S  PRIVATE 
FOURTH 

GRANDFATHER  WATTS  used  to  tell  us  boys 

That  a  Fourth  wa'n't  a  Fourth  without  any  noise. 

He  would  say,  with  a  thump  of  his  hickory  stick, 

That  it  made  an  American  right  down  sick 

To  see  his  sons  on  the  Nation's  Day 

Sit  round,  in  a  sort  of  a  listless  way, 

With  no  oration  and  no  train-band, 

No  fire- work  show  and  no  root-beer  stand; 

While  his  grandsons,  before  they  were  out  of  bibs, 

Were  ashamed  —  Great  Scott !  —  to  fire  off  squibs. 

And  so,  each  Independence  morn, 
Grandfather  Watts  took  his  powder-horn, 
And  the  flint-lock  shot-gun  his  father  had 
When  he  fought  under  Schuyler,  a  country  lad; 
And  Grandfather  Watts  would  start  and  tramp 
Ten  miles  to  the  woods  at  Beaver  Camp; 
For  Grandfather  Watts  used  to  say  —  and  scowl  - 
That  a  decent  chipmunk,  or  woodchuck,  or  owl 
Was  better  company,  friendly  or  shy, 
Than  folks  who  did  n't  keep  Fourth  of  July. 
And  so  he  would  pull  his  hat  down  on  his  brow, 
And  march  for  the  woods,  sou '-east  by  sou'. 

But  once  —  ah,  long,  long  years  ago,  — 

For  Grandfather  's  gone  where  good  men  ago,  — 

183 


ROWEN 

One  hot,  hot  Fourth,  by  ways  of  our  own 
(Such  short-cuts  as  boys  have  always  known), 
We  hurried,  and  followed  the  dear  old  man 
Beyond  where  the  wilderness  began  — 
To  the  deep  black  woods  at  the  foot  of  the  Hump; 
And  there  was  a  clearing  —  and  a  stump. 

A  stump  in  the  heart  of  a  great  wide  wood, 
And  there  on  that  stump  our  Grandfather  stood, 
Talking  and  shouting  out  there  in  the  sun, 
And  firing  that  funny  old  flint-lock  gun 
Once  in  a  minute  —  his  head  all  bare  — 
Having  his  Fourth  of  July  out  there: 
The  Fourth  of  July  that  he  used  to  know, 
Back  in  eighteen- and- twenty  or  so ! 

First,  with  his  face  to  the  heavens  blue, 
He  read  the  " Declaration "  through; 
And  then,  with  gestures  to  left  and  right, 
He  made  an  oration  erudite, 
Full  of  words  six  syllables  long  — 
And  then  our  Grandfather  burst  into  song ! 
And,  scaring  the  squirrels  in  the  trees, 
Gave  "Hail,  Columbia!"  to  the  breeze. 

And  I  tell  you  the  old  man  never  heard 
When  we  joined  in  the  chorus,  word  for  word! 
But  he  sang  out  strong  to  the  bright  blue  sky; 
And  if  voices  joined  in  his  Fourth  of  July, 
He  heard  them  as  echoes  from  days  gone  by. 

184 


ROWEN 

And  when  he  had  done,  we  all  slipped  back, 
As  still  as  we  came,  on  our  twisting  track, 
While  words  more  clear  than  the  flint-lock  shots 
Rang  in  our  ears. 

And  Grandfather  Watts? 

He  shouldered  the  gun  his  father  bore, 
And  marched  off  home,  nor'-west  by  nor'. 


185 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

CONCERNING  A   BUNCH   OF   BLOSSOMS 

THE  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  indeed,  they  were  fair; 
And  grateful  the  odor  they  cast  on  the  air; 
And  he  put  them  in  water,  and  set  them  anigh 
His  little  round  window  that  looked  on  the  sky. 
And  the  blush  of  those  blossoms,  their  pleasant  perfume, 
Made  a  sweet  little  spot  in  that  dull  little  room  — 
Made  a  sweet  little  spot  for  a  day  and  an  hour; 
Then  — 

Well,  little  Lil.  what 's  the  fate  of  a  flower? 

The  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  indeed,  they  were  fair; 
But  I  think  that  the  least  of  the  giving  was  there, 
In  that  vase  by  the  window  —  the  look  in  her  face  — 
Her  tender  and  youthful  and  delicate  grace  — 
The  voice  that  just  trembled  in  gentle  replies, 
The  look  and  the  light  in  her  uplifted  eyes  — 
Ah !  these  to  my  thinking  were  dearer  by  far 
Than  ever  the  fairest  of  May-blossoms  are. 

The  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  you  ask,  little  Lil, 
With  a  lip  that  is  quivering  and  blue  eyes  that  fill  — 
If  they  faded? 

They  did  —  but  there  's  no  need  to  cry ! 
For  they  blossomed  again  where  I  can't  have  them 
die  — 

1 86 


ROWEN 

These  roseate  tints  on  your  soft  little  cheek, 

In  a  manner  mysterious  certainly  speak 

Of  a  bunch  of  pink  blossoms,  fresh  torn  from  the  tree, 

That  in  eighteen-and-eighty  your  mother  gave  me. 


187 


SCHUBERT'S  KINDER-SCENEN 

THE  spirit  of  the  Ingle  Nook 
Has  come  to  lead  me  forth, 

To  wonder  at  the  leaping  brook  — 
The  wind  from  out  the  north. 

To  wander  with  Haroun  the  Great 
Through  groves  of  Eastern  scent; 

To  watch  beyond  the  garden  gate 
The  birds  fly,  heavenward  bent; 

To  lie  amid  the  grass,  and  dream 
Each  slim  and  spreading  spire 

A  tufted  palm,  lit  by  the  gleam 
Of  distant  heavens'  fire. 

To  dream  and  dream  of  things  beyond 
The  gate  —  beyond  to-day  — 

Until  upon  the  miller's  pond 

The  low  red  light  shall  play. 

And  then,  when  all  my  dreams  shall  swim 
To  murmuring  of  the  brook, 

I  shall  be  led  from  twilight  dim 
Back  to  the  Ingle  Nook. 


188 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 
AND  LATER  LYRICS 

11896] 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 


I.    THE  MAID  OF  MURRAY  HILL 

SAINT  VALENTINE,  Saint  Valentine ! 

I  love  a  maid  of  New  York  town, 
And  every  day,  on  my  homeward  way, 

She  walks  the  Avenue  down. 
At  five  o'clock,  dear  Saint,  she  goes 

Tripping  down  Murray  Hill, 
And  the  hands  of  the  clock  in  the  old  brick  spire 

Stand  still,  stand  still,  stand  still ! 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine ! 

Oh,  could  you  know  how  fair  a  maid  — 
So  trim  of  dress,  and  so  gold  of  tress, 

You  'd  know  why  I  'm  afraid. 
I  see  her  pass,  I  smile  and  bow, 

As  I  go  up  Murray  Hill, 
And  I  say  to  a  foolish  hope  of  mine: 

Be  still,  be  still,  be  still ! 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine, 

Oh,  could  you  see  how  close  her  gown 
Binds  tight  and  warm  about  her  form, 

This  maid  of  New  York  town, 
You  'd  know  a  mountain  would  to  me 

Be  less  than  Murray  Hill, 
If  only  around  her  my  arm  could  slip, 

And  she  'd  stand  still,  stand  still. 

193 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine ! 

She  is  so  fair,  so  rich,  so  great, 
I  have  no  right  to  think  what  might 

Be  this  poor  clerk's  estate. 
And  yet  the  bells  in  yon  brick  spire 

As  we  pass  on  Murray  Hill, 
They  ring,  they  ring  —  she  Js  not  for  me 

And  still  —  and  still  —  and  still  — 


194 


II.    THE  FRIVOLOUS  GIRL 

HER  silken  gown  it  rustles 

As  she  goes  down  the  stair; 
And  in  all  the  place  there  's  ne'er  a  face 

One  half,  one  half  so  fair. 
But,  oh!   I  saw  her  yesterday  — 

And  no  one  knew  't  was  she  — 
When  a  little  sick  child  looked  up  and  smiled 

As  she  sat  on  my  lady's  knee. 

Her  fan  it  flirts  and  flutters, 

Her  eyes  grow  bright  —  grow  dim  — 
And  all  around  no  man  is  found 

But  thinks  she  thinks  of  him. 
But,  oh!  to  her  the  best  of  all. 

Though  they  be  great  and  grand, 
Are  less  than  the  sick  whose  smiles  come  quick 

At  the  touch  of  my  lady's  hand. 

Her  little  shoe  of  satin 

Peeps  underneath  her  skirt  — 
And  a  foot  so  small  ought  never  at  all 

To  move  in  mire  and  dirt. 
But,  oh  !  she  goes  among  the  poor, 

And  heavy  hearts  rejoice  — 
As  they  can  tell  who  know  her  well  — 

To  hear  my  lady's  voice. 

195 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

Her  glove  is  soft  as  feathers 

Upon  the  nestling  dove; 
Its  touch  so  light  I  have  no  right 

To  think,  to  dream  of  love  — 
But,  oh!  when,  clad  in  simplest  garb, 

She  goes  where  none  may  see, 
I  watch,  and  pray  that  some  happy  day 

My  lady  may  pity  ME. 


196 


III.    KITTY'S  SUMMERING 

HAVE  you  seen  e'er  a  sign  of  my  Kitty? 

Have  you  seen  a  fair  maiden  go  by 
Who  was  wed  in  this  summer-struck  city 
About  the  first  week  in  July? 

How  fair  was  her  face  there  's  no  telling; 

She  was  well-nigh  as  wealthy  as  fair, 
And  of  marble  and  brick  was  her  dwelling 
On  the  North  side  of  Washington  Square. 

Have  you  seen  her  at  Newport  a-driving? 
Have  you  seen  her  a-flirt  at  the  Pier? 
Is  she  written  among  the  arriving 

At  the  Shoals  or  the  Hamptons  this  year? 
Or  out  where  the  ocean  bird  flutters 

Are  the  sea-breezes  tossing  her  hair? 
For  closed  are  the  ancient  green  shutters 
In  the  house  on  North  Washington  Square. 

So  you,  too,  are  trying  to  find  her? 

Then  climb  up  these  stairways  with  me, 
That  twist  and  grow  blinder  and  blinder, 
Till  the  skylight  near  heaven  you  see. 
Is  the  sun  my  dull  studio  gilding? 
Ah,  no,  it  is  Kitty  sits  there  — 
She  has  moved  to  the  Studio  Building 
On  the  SOUTH  side  of  Washington  Square. 
197 


IV.    AT  DANCING-SCHOOL 

THE  master  's  old  and  lean  and  grim, 

And  the  gout  is  in  his  knees; 
And  though  he  says  his  eyes  are  dim, 
My  smallest  fault  he  sees. 

Chassez  and  bow,  and  turn  and  low  — 

I  try  my  best  to  please  — 
No  matter  how,  there 's  a  frown  on  his  brow  - 
And  the  gout  is  in  his  knees. 

He  taught  my  father  long  ago; 

He  teaches  me  to-day: 
A  thousand  small  tired  feet,  I  know, 
Have  stirred  at  his  "chassez!" 

Chassez  and  bow,  and  turn  and  low  — 

To  the  girl  in  pink  and  gray  - 
No  matter  how,  there's  a  frown  on  his  brow, 
As  he  teaches  me  to-day. 

But  what  care  I  how  stern  he  be, 

If  Pink-and-Gray  be  kind? 
Oh,  let  him  frown  his  best  on  me 
If  so  he  have  a  mind. 

Chassez  and  low,  and  turn  and  low  — 

My  happy  eyes  are  Hind 
To  the  frown  on  his  brow  —  no  matter  how  - 
If  Pink-and-Gray  be  kind. 
198 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

Oh,  let  him  frown,  and  frown  his  fill, 

Howe'er  he  make  me  stir; 
The  CALEDONIAN  QUADRILLE 
To-day  I  dance  with  her. 

Chassez  and  bow,  and  turn  and  bow  — 

The  fiddles  whizz  and  whirr. 
No  matter  how  be  the  frown  on  his  brow, 
To-day  I  dance  with  her. 


Ah,  me !     What  years  have  slid  away, 

Sweet  Pink-and-Gray,  and  how! 
Since  that  old  "  CALEDONIAN'S  "  day  — 
They  do  not  dance  it  now. 

Chassez  and  bow,  and  turn  and  bow; 
And  the  master,  grim  and  gray, 
Has  a  frown  on  his  brow,  and  yet,  somehow, 
The  scholars  slip  away. 

I  sit  here  in  the  evening's  cool, 

And  see  you,  Pink-and-Gray, 

Lead  children  to  the  dancing-school  — 

To  the  master  grim  and  gray. 

Chassez  and  bow,  and  turn  and  bow  — 

/  might  have  walked  to-day  — 
No  matter  how  —  '/  will  never  be  now  — 
With  you,  sweet  Pink-and-Gray  I 


199 


V.    THEIR  WEDDING  JOURNEY— 1834 

Dear  Mother, 

When  the  Coach  rolled  off 
From  dear  old  Battery  Place 
I  hid  my  face  within  my  hands  — 

That  is,  I  hid  my  face. 
Tom  says  (he 's  leaning  over  me  /) 
'T  was  on  his  Shoulder,  too; 
But,  oh,  I  pray  you  will  believe 
I  wept  to  part  from  You. 

And  when  we  rattled  up  Broadway 

I  wept  to  leave  the  Scene 
Familiar  to  my  happy  Youth 

(I  did  love  Bowling  Green). 
I  wept  at  SlidelFs  Chandlery 

To  see  the  smoak  arise  — 
'T  was  only  at  the  City  Hall 

Tom  bade  me  wipe  my  Eyes. 

By  Mr.  Niblo's  Garden,  where 

You  would  not  let  me  go, 
We  went,  and  travell'd  up  the  Hill  — 

So  fast,  and  yet  so  slow ! 
And  so  we  left  behind  the  Town 

And  ere  the  Sun  had  set 
We  reach'd  the  Inn  at  Tubby  Hook  — 6 

We  have  not  left  it  yet! 
200 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

I  know  that  we  are  very  Wrong  — 

Dear  Mother,  pray  forgive ! 
From  Sun  to  Sun  't  is  all  so  sweet  - 

It  seems  so  sweet  to  Live ! 
I  know  the  things  we  meant  to  do, 

The  road  we  vow'd  to  go, 
But  Torn  and  I  are  here,  and  —  oh, 

Dear  Mother,  do  you  know? 

We  have  not  gone  to  Uncle  John's, 

Though  Yonkers  is  so  near  — 
We  never  shall  see  Cousin  Van 

At  Tarry  town,  I  fear. 
Our  Peekskill  friends,  the  Fishkill  folk, 

And  all  the  waiting  rest  — 
Tom  bids  me  tell  you  they  may  wait  — 

(He  says  they  may  be  Blest). 

I  know  't  is  ill  to  linger  here 

Hid  in  this  woodland  Inn, 
When  all  along  Queen  Anne's  broad  road 

Await  our  Friends  and  Kin; 
But,  Dear  Mama  (when  I  was  small : 

You  let  me  call  you  so), 
'T  is  such  Felicity  and  Joy 

With  Him,  Here  !    Do  you  know? 

YOUR  ISABEL. 
P.  S.  —  Tom  sends 

His  love.     Please  write,  "/  know." 


201 


VI.    TO  A  JUNE  BREEZE 


A-SUMMERING 

WIND  of  the  City  Streets, 

Impatient  to  be  free, 
In  this  dull  time  of  heats 

My  love  takes  wings  to  flee  — 
Leave  thou  this  idle  Town 
And  hunt  Her  down. 

Wherever  She  may  stay, 

By  Sea  or  Mountain-side, 

Make  thou  thy  airy  Way, 
If  there  She  bide; 

If  sea- spray  kiss  Her  face; 

Or  hills  find  grace. 

And,  having  found  Her  out, 
On  Sands  or  under  Trees, 

Say  that  I  wait  in  doubt, 

To  melt  with  love  or  freeze: 

Nor  yet  hath  Summer  stirred; 

But  waits  Her  word. 


202 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

Say  that,  if  She  so  please, 
These  ways  so  dusty-dry, 

With  their  poor  song-shunn'd  Trees, 
Shall  ring  with  Melody; 

And  turn  Love's  Wilderness, 

If  She  say  Yes. 

But  if  my  Fate  fall  so 

That  She  will  naught  of  me, 

Tell  Her  the  Winter's  snow 

Shall  strip  the  greenest  tree: 

One  only  Frost  I  fear  — 

She  makes  my  Year. 

Go,  then,  sweet  Wind,  and  pray 

That  She  remember 
She  makes  my  March  or  May, 

June  or  December  — 

If  Town  grow  green  with  trees: 
If  the  new  Blossoms  freeze: 

Hers  it  is  but  to  say  — 
Pray  Her  that  so  She  please  — 

Pray  Her  remember ! 


203 


VII.    THE  CHAPERON 

I  TAKE  my  chaperon  to  the  play  — 
She  thinks  she  's  taking  me. 

And  the  gilded  youth  who  owns  the  box, 
A  proud  young  man  is  he  - 

But  how  would  his  young  heart  be  hurt 
If  he  could  only  know 
That  not  for  his  sweet  sake  I  go 
Nor  yet  to  see  the  trifling  show; 

But  to  see  my  chaperon  flirt. 

Her  eyes  beneath  her  snowy  hair 
They  sparkle  young  as  mine; 

There  's  scarce  a  wrinkle  in  her  hand 
So  delicate  and  fine. 

And  when  my  chaperon  is  seen, 
They  come  from  everywhere  — 
The  dear  old  boys  with  silvery  hair, 
With  old-time  grace  and  old-time  air, 

To  greet  their  old-time  queen. 

They  bow  as  my  young  Midas  here 

Will  never  learn  to  bow 
(The  dancing-masters  do  not  teach 

That  gracious  reverence  now); 
With  voices  quavering  just  a  bit, 

They  play  their  old  parts  through, 

They  talk  of  folk  who  used  to  woo, 
204 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

Of  hearts  that  broke  in  'fifty-two  — 
Now  none  the  worst  for  it. 


And  as  those  aged  crickets  chirp 
I  watch  my  chaperon's  face, 

And  see  the  dear  old  features  take 
A  new  and  tender  grace  — 

And  in  her  happy  eyes  I  see 

Her  youth  awakening  bright, 
With  all  its  hope,  desire,  delight  — 
Ah,  me !    I  wish  that  I  were  quite 

As  young  —  as  young  as  she ! 


205 


VIII.    A  SONG  OF  BEDFORD  STREET 

IT  's  a  long  time  ago  and  a  poor  time  to  boast  of, 

The  foolish  old  time  of  two  young  people's  start; 
But  sweet  were  the  days  that  young  love  made  the 
most  of  — 

So  short  by  the  clock,  and  so  long  by  the  heart! 
We  lived  in  a  cottage  in  old  Greenwich  Village, 

With  a  tiny  clay  plot  that  was  burnt  brown  and 

hard; 
But  it  softened  at  last  to  my  girFs  patient  tillage, 

And  the  roses  sprang  up  in  our  little  back  yard. 

The  roses  sprang  up  and  the  yellow  day-lilies; 

And  heartsease  and  pansies,  sweet  Williams  and 

stocks, 
And  bachelors'-buttons  and  bright  daffodillies 

Filled  green  little    beds  that  I  bordered  with  box. 
They  were  plain  country  posies,  bright-hued  and  sweet- 
smelling, 
And  the  two  of  us  worked  for  them,  worked  long 

and  hard; 
And  the  flowers  she  had  loved  in  her  old-country 

dwelling, 
They  made  her  at  home  in  our  little  back  yard. 


206 


BALLADS  OF  THE  TOWN 

In  the  morning  I  dug  while  the  breakfast  was  cooking, 

And  went  to  the  shop,  where  I  toiled  all  the  day; 

And  at  night  I  returned,  and  I  found  my  love  looking 

With  her  bright  country  eyes  down  the  dull  city 

way. 

And  first  she  would  tell  me  what  flowers  were  blooming, 
And  her  soft  hand  slipped  into  a  hand  that  was 

hard, 

And  she  led  through  the  house,  till  a  breeze  came  per 
fuming 
Our  little  back  hall  from  our  little  back  yard. 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  and  we  have  n't  grown  wealthy; 

And  we  don't  live  in  state  up  in  Madison  Square: 
But  the  old  man  is  hale,  and  he  's  happy  and  healthy, 

And  his  wife 's  none  the  worse  for  the  gray  in  her 

hair. 
Each  year  lends  a  sweeter  new  scent  to  the  roses; 

Each  year  makes  hard  life  seem  a  little  less  hard; 
And  each  year  a  new  love  for  old  lovers  discloses  — 

Come,  wife,  let  us  walk  in  our  little  back  yard ! 


207 


LATER  LYRICS 


THE  RED  BOX  AT  VESEY  STREET 

PAST  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  street 

Swing  two  strong  tides  of  hurrying  feet, 

And  up  and  down  and  all  the  day 

Rises  a  sullen  roar,  to  say 

The  Bowery  has  met  Broadway. 

And  where  the  confluent  current  brawls 

Stands,  fair  and  dear  and  old,  St.  Paul's, 

Through  her  grand  window  looking  down 

Upon  the  fever  of  the  town; 

Rearing  her  shrine  of  patriot  pride 

Above  that  hungry  human-tide 

Mad  with  the  lust  of  sordid  gain, 

Wild  for  the  things  that  God  holds  vain; 

Blind,  selfish,  cruel  —  Stay  there !  out 

A  man  is  turning  from  the  rout, 

And  stops  to  drop  a  folded  sheet 

In  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  street. 

On  goes  he  to  the  money-mart, 
A  broker,  shrewd  and  tricky-smart; 
But  in  the  space  you  saw  him  stand, 
He  reached  and  grasped  a  brother's  hand: 
And  some  poor  bed-rid  wretch  will  find 
Bed-life  a  little  less  unkind 
For  that  man's  stopping.     They  who  pass 
Under  St.  Paul's  broad  roseate  glass 
211 


LATER  LYRICS 

Have  but  to  reach  their  hands  to  gain 
The  pitiful  world  of  prisoned  pain. 
The  hospital's  poor  captive  lies 
Waiting  the  day  with  weary  eyes, 
Waiting  the  day,  to  hear  again 
News  of  the  outer  world  of  men, 
Brought  to  him  in  a  crumpled  sheet 
From  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  street. 

For  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  street 

Was  made  because  men's  hearts  must  beat; 

Because  the  humblest  kindly  thought 

May  do  what  wealth  has  never  bought. 

That  journal  in  your  hand  you  hold 

To  you  already  has  grown  old,  — 

Stale,  dull,  a  thing  to  throw  away,  — 

Yet  since  the  earliest  gleam  of  day 

Men  in  a  score  of  hospitals 

Have  lain  and  watched  the  whitewashed  walls; 

Waiting  the  hour  that  brings  more  near 

The  Life  so  infinitely  dear  — 

The  Life  of  trouble,  toil,  and  strife, 

Hard,  if  you  will  —  but  Life,  Life,  Life ! 

Tell  them,  O  friend !  that  life  is  sweet 

Through  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  street. 


212 


SHRIVEN 

A.  D.  1425 

"After  he  had  given  his  final  directions,  he  asked  his  physicians  how 
long  they  thought  he  might  live.  And  when  they  told  him,  'About  two 
hours,'  he  shut  out  from  his  thoughts  every  earthly  care,  and  spent  his 
remaining  moments  in  devotion." 

I  HAVE  let  the  world  go. 

That's  the  door  that  closed 
Behind  the  holy  father.     I  am  shrived. 
All 's  done  —  all 's  said  —  all 's  shaped  and  rounded 

out  — 

And  one  hour  yet  to  wait  for  death.     Good  Lord ! 
How  easy  't  was  to  let  this  vain  life  go ! 
Why,  I  protest,  I,  who  have  fought  for  life 
These  fifty  years  more  times  than  I  would  count, 
I  gave  the  poor  thing  up  but  now  as  though 
I  toss'd  away  a  shilling  —  ask  the  priest ! 
I  gave  life  as  lightly  as  I  gave  him 
For  an  altar-cloth  that  scarf  of  cloth  of  gold 
The  King  bound  round  my  arm  at  Agincourt. 
******* 

One  hour  —  one  hour !  and  then  a  tug  o'  the  heart 
And  I  shall  see  the  saints.     How  plain  they  make  it, 
These  honest  men  of  God !     Was  it  at  Lisle 
I  met  that  paunchy  little  yellow  friar, 
Like  Cupid  in  a  cassock  with  the  jaundice, 
And  played  at  cards  with  him  two  days  together? 

213 


LATER  LYRICS 

Stay,  Jt  was  at  Calais,  where  I  fought  the  Count  — 
By  'r  Lady,  but  they  mock'd  him !  —  't  was  at  Calais  — 
Now  had  I  had  some  converse  with  that  brother 
It  might  have  been  the  better  for  my  soul. 
Though  't  is  all  one,  I  take  it,  now.  .  .  .    The  Abbess ! 
He  told  a  master-story  of  an  Abbess  — 
An  Abbess  and  a  Clerk  —  but  godly  talk, 
If  I  remember  me  aright  ...  we  had  not. 
******* 

Ay,  Jt  is  fair  lying  here,  to  watch  the  sun 
Creep  up  yon  wall.     I  would  that  I  had  thought 
To  give  that  priest  the  ruby  in  my  hilt 
To  buy  him  better  store  of  sacred  oil  — 
The  anointed  go  to  Paradise,  methinks, 
Something  too  rancid-flavored. 

What's  the  clock? 

This  hour  's  too  full  of  minutes  —  minutes  —  minutes. 
Ah,  well,  I  have  done  with  time.     'T  is  but  an  hour. 
I  have  let  go  the  world. 

Would  my  dog  were  here ! 


214 


SONG  FOR  LABOR  DAY6 

His  voice  who  made  the  land 
For  his  holiest  hath  decreed  it; 

His  chosen  it  shall  stand 
And  the  Lord  shall  lead  it. 

Work,  work,  thy  lot  shall  be, 
And  the  worker  shall  possess  thee  - 

Grown  strong  from  sea  to  sea, 
No  foeman  shall  distress  thee  - 

Work  on !     Work  on !     America ! 

His  voice  in  that  day  said: 

"Thou  shalt  labor,  0  my  chosen, 

When  suns  are  hot  o'erhead; 
When  waters  shall  be  frozen." 

Work,  work,  thy  lot  shall  be, 
And  the  worker  shall  possess  thee  - 

Grown  strong  from  sea  to  sea, 
No  foeman  shall  distress  thee  — 

Work  on !     Work  on !     America ! 

His  voice  hath  spoken  down: 

"Thou  shalt  conquer  the  despoiler. 

Thy  labor  is  thy  crown 
And  thy  might,  O  Toiler!" 


LATER  LYRICS 

Work,  work,  thy  lot  shall  be, 
And  the  worker  shall  possess  thee  — 

Grown  strong  from  sea  to  sea, 
No  foeman  shall  distress  thee  — 

Work  on !     Work  on !     America ! 


2l6 


"THEY  ALSO  SERVE" 

A  poem  read  before  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  at  its  Twenty-sixth 
Annual  Reunion,  New  London,  Conn.,  June  18,  1895. 

FRIENDS  —  for  we  are  all  friends  in  one  great  bond  — 

That,  born  in  death,  shall  go  death's  power  beyond, 

That  shall  endure  so  long  as  love  shall  twine 

The  first  Spring  blossoms  for  the  patriot  shrine. 

So  long  as  men  shall  deck  with  living  green 

The  dust  of  friends  unknown,  unmet,  unseen; 

So  long  as  Love  shall  quicken  Memory's  birth, 

Each  year  to  seek  the  consecrated  earth, 

To  wreathe  the  tombs  among  the  fresh  Spring  showers, 

With    heaven's   own    banner   and   with    earth's   own 

flowers  — 

So  long  the  sacred  tie  that  makes  us  kin 
Shall  know  no  petty  bonds  of  time  or  space, 
But  hold  us  in  the  friendship  of  one  race  — 
The  friendship  that  our  dead  have  knit  us  in. 
Here  I  am  come  to  speak  to  you,  my  brothers  — 
My  elder  brothers  —  of  a  long-passed  day 
When  you  were  fighting  for  this  flag;  when  others 
Remained  at  home  to  watch  —  to  yearn  —  to  pray. 
What  shall  I  tell  to  you,  who  truly  followed 
The  troublous  path  my  young  soul  longed  to  go? 
You  know  that  for  your  help  God's  palm  was  hollowed, 
And  how  his  strength  prevailed  against  the  foe. 

217 


LATER  LYRICS 

But,  may  I  tell  the  tale  of  those  who  waited 
Patient  at  home  —  the  old,  the  infirm,  the  young  — 
Watching  the  strife  wherein  they  were  not  fated 
Even  to  die  unhonored  and  unsung? 

What  does  the  boy  do  who  goes  to  bed 

In  the  great  third  year  of  the  war, 

With  the  farm-house  roof  hanging  low  over  head, 

And  the  path  of  the  moon  stretching  out  before, 

Out  over  the  wood  and  over  the  lake, 

To  the  dusty  highway  the  soldiers  take 

When  they  march  on  their  way  to  the  South? 

What  does  he  do  when  he  goes  to  bed  ?  — 

He  lays  on  the  pillow  a  touzled  head, 

And  the  tired  eyelids  that  all  the  day 

Have  been  with  the  face  of  the  world  at  play; 

Watching  the  birds  and  the  swing  of  the  trees, 

Watching  the    chipmunks  more  quick  than  the 

breeze, 

Watching  the  melons  a  taking  on  green, 
Watching  the  myriad  things  to  be  seen  — 

—  They  close  for  a  moment  and  open  again, 
For  he  hears  the  tramp  of  the  marching  men 
Southward  and  ever  south; 

And  he  swallows  a  sob,  and  shuts  tight  his  mouth, 
And  orders  his  heart  to  the  right-about, 
But  even  in  slumber  his  tears  slip  out, 
That  the  sound  of  the  drum  and  the  fife 
Is  slipping  away  to  the  strife, 
218 


LATER  LYRICS 

Where  he  may  not  go 

Till  sun  and  snow 

Have  carried  his  eager  young  spirit  —  say  — 

A  couple  of  years  on  its  patriot  way. 

Oh,  how  he  yearns  for  it, 

How  his  heart  burns  for  it  — 

How  the  shrill  music  of  drum  and  of  fife 

Thrills  through  the  whole  of  him, 

Wakes  the  young  soul  of  him  — 

Oh,  to  be  with  them  and  pay  with  his  life ! 

What  does  the  boy  do  who  goes  to  bed 
In  the  great  third  year  of  the  war? 
Wakes  in  the  morn  when  the  east  is  red, 
And  the  west  is  silvered  o'er; 
Wakes  in  the  morning  and  goes  to  work, 
Eating  his  heart,  but  too  proud  to  shirk, 
Dropping  the  corn  in  the  heart  of  the  hill, 
Plying  his  spade  and  his  hoe  with  a  will; 
And  his  mother  looks  from  the  kitchen  stoop, 
With  reddened  eyelids  that  quiver  and  droop, 
At  the  one  boy  left  her  —  0,  friends  in  blue  — 
Was  n't  he  fighting  as  well  as  you? 

Oh,  let  me  not  by  any  doubtful  word 
Question  your  mighty  service:  what  you  wrought 
Was  wrought  forever,  and  the  eternal  years 
Shall  not  undo  it.     But  we  all  have  seen 
The  glory  of  that  mighty  miracle. 
219 


LATER  LYRICS 

The  foulest  of  foul  stains  you  washed  with  blood 

From  off  your  country's  shield:  your  strong  hand  rent 

The  chains  ourselves  had  forged  ourselves  to  fetter, 

But,  oh !  remember  that  no  fleshly  wound 

Fell  crueler  than  the  blows  the  true  hearts  bore 

You  left  behind  you  when  you  took  your  way. 

Do  you  know  how  they  looked  in  our  eyes,  do  you 

know  how  they  looked  as  they  went  ?  — 
The  picture  is  ever  before  me  —  friends,  will  you  look 

at  yourselves  ? 

See  how  they  swing  down  the  street  with  the  glint  of 

the  sun 

Silvering  the  steel  of  the  gun. 
With  an  easy  swing  to  the  hips,  as  they  march  on, 

shoulder  to  shoulder, 
Doubtful,  uncertain  at  first,  and  then  growing  firmer 

and  bolder 
As  the  cheers  of  the  crowd  rise  round  them,  and  run  in 

a  rattling  roar 
Down  on  each  side  of  the  column  and  out  like  a  fire 

before. 
It  swells  by  their  side  to  a  thunder  that  hushes  the 

beat  of  their  feet, 
It  catches  their  cadence  of  marching  and  rolls  it  ahead 

down  the  street; 
Down  the  whole  length  of  the  roadway,  through  the 

throng  of  the  thousands  that  wait, 
Down  goes  the  heralding  thunder  as  the  troops  march 

on  in  state. 


22O 


LATER  LYRICS 

And   down   where   the   Battery   breezes   are  blowing 

through  Bowling  Green 
The  men  of  New  York  are  cheering  the  troops  that 

they  have  not  seen. 
Oh,  glorious  pageant  of  war  that  shall  sweep  you  along 

amid  cheers !  — 
But  the  wife  you  have  left  is  this  moment  thanking 

God  for  the  blindness  of  tears. 

She  kissed  you,  and  she  raised  unclouded  eyes 
That  hid  the  unspeakable  pain  of  unshed  tears. 
She  kissed  you  and  she  lifted  up  your  child, 
For  she  had  taught  him  to  be  brave  like  you  — 
Or  her  —  how  shall  we  put  it,  O,  my  friend  ? 
She  kissed  you,  and  she  sent  you  on  your  way, 
Her  noble  wifehood  strengthening  you  for  fight, 
And  turned  her  patient  face  toward  home  to  stay 
And  bear  the  wound  that  aches  from  morn  to 

night. 

Oh,  trust  me  if  I  speak  of  those  who  shared 
Your  pain  and  not  your  glory;  it  is  not 
To  rob  your  laurels  of  a  single  leaf, 
But  to  proclaim  how  that  close  tie  of  grief 
Bound  you  in  bonds  of  love  to  childish  hearts 
That  in  these  days,  grown  closer  to  the  age 
Of  those  they  honor,  still  recall  the  past  — 
Recall  the  past,  and  how  you  met  the  task 
You  found  set  for  you,  and  not  newly  set, 
But  waiting  for  the  work  of  men  like  you, 
But  waiting  for  the  faith  of  men  like  you  — 
Waiting  through  centuries  of  wrong  and  shame 
221 


LATER  LYRICS 

Since  Christ  decreed  the  brotherhood  of  Man, 
For  it  was  as  His  soldiers  that  they  went, 
Who,  being  dead,  have  left  their  trust  to  us. 

I  was  not  of  you,  but  that  tie  still  binds 

My  childish  memories  unto  unborn  minds, 

And  I  shall  teach  my  boy  the  way  to  go 

By  paths  your  fearless  footsteps  served  to  show. 

And  if  he  serves  his  country  firm  and  true, 

'T  is  that  his  father  learned  to  serve  from  you. 


222 


THE  QUEST 

UPON  my  lips  there  fell,  when  first  the  Night 
Pales  in  the  highest  heaven,  seeing  Day 
Far  down  the  fathomless  Eastern  depths  away 

Pales  with  a  fearful  joy,  a  dread  delight  — 

Upon  my  lips,  with  wakeful  watching  white 
There  fell  a  kiss.     One  instant's  space  it  lay 
Soft  as  a  rose-leaf  that  the  West-winds  fray, 

And  then  my  eyes  awoke  to  dazzled  sight. 

The  warmth,  the  tender  impact  and  the  thrill 
Burnt  on  my  lips,  and  the  calm  pulse  of  Sleep 

Awoke  and  quivered  quick  in  soft  surprise. 
From  that  day  forward  knew  I  Love  I 

And  still 
By  day  I  search,  and  nightly  vigil  keep 

For  Her  revealed  to  me  in  such  strange  wise. 


223 


UNAWARE 

I  WOULD  not  have  you  so  kindly 

Thus  early  in  friendship's  year  — 

A  little  too  gently,  blindly, 
You  let  me  near. 

So  long  as  my  voice  is  duly 

Calm  as  a  friend's  should  be, 

In  my  eyes  the  hunger  unruly 
You  will  not  see. 

The  eyes  that  you  lift  so  brightly, 
Frankly  to  welcome  mine  — 

You  bend  them  again  as  lightly 
And  note  no  sign. 

I  had  rather  your  pale  cheek  reddened 
With  the  flush  of  an  angry  pride  — 

That  a  look  with  disliking  deadened 
My  gaze  defied. 

If  so  in  the  Spring's  full  season 

Your  glance  should  soften  and  fall, 

When,  reckless  with  fever's  unreason, 
I  tell  you  all. 


224 


A  MAGIC  GIFT* 

I  ALWAYS  believed  the  fairy  tales, 

For  with  every  year  I  grew 
I  found  that  more  and  more  of  them 

Were  the  truest  kind  of  true. 

And  of  all  the  tales  I  knew  and  loved 

In  the  days  when  I  was  small, 
You  have  chosen,  to  prove  its  truth  to  me, 

The  prettiest  one  of  all. 

The  tale  of  the  maid  whose  lips  dropped  pearls, 

And  roses  and  all  things  sweet, 
Because  she  was  simply  civil  and  kind 

To  a  fairy  she  chanced  to  meet. 

Why  should  n't  it  happen  to  girls  —  and  boys  - 

In  the  days  when  fairies  flew  — 
Since  a  few  poor  latter-day  words  of  mine 

Have  been  turned  into  flowers  by  you? 

*  These  verses  were  an  acknowledgment  of  some  flowers,  sent  to  Mr. 
Bunner  in  gratitude  for  a  reading  he  had  given  in  aid  of  a  charity. 


225 


LUTETIA 

1856 

OFTEN  in  visions  of  the  night  I  seem 

To  pace  thy  avenues  with  enchanted  feet; 

Walk  thy  broad  boulevards  from  the  mid-day  heat 

Till  myriad  gas-jets  through  the  calm  dusk  gleam; 

See  moonlight  crown  Napoleon's  tower  supreme; 
Watch  in  the  Latin  Quarter's  darkest  street 
From  revelling  in  some  cavernous  retreat, 

Strange  student-shapes  into  the  cool  night  stream  — 

Young  hungry  gods  of  genius  —  or  where  beam 
Lights  of  Lampsakian  gardens:  where  is  blown 
White  hot  the  fire  of  folly,  to  turn  again. 

Yet  ever  flies  the  spirit  of  my  dream 

To  that  high  garret,  where,  sick,  blind,  alone, 
Lies  Heine  on  his  pallet-prison  of  pain. 


226 


NOTES 


NOTES 

1  "There  was  a  vague  murmur  in  the  air  of  little  brooks,  that  one 
might  fancy  had  lost  their  way  in  the  darkness,  and  were  whispering 
together  how  they  should  get  home." 

—"In  the  Distance,"  by  G.  P.  LaLhrop. 

2  The  only  authority  I  have  for  calling  this  "A  Real  Ro 
mance"  is  the  following,  clipped  from  a  stray  newspaper  in 
'77  or  '78: 

"  A  school-girl  at  Bellefontaine,  Ohio,  offended  her  boy  lover,  and  he 
refused  to  speak  to  her.  She  passed  a  note  to  him,  asking  forgiveness, 
but  he  refused.  She  wrote  to  him  again,  saying  that  she  would  kill 
herself  if  he  did  not  make  up;  and  he  replied  that  he  would  be  glad  to  go 
to  her  funeral.  She  then  began  her  suicidal  efforts  by  drinking  a  bot 
tle  of  red  ink,  which  only  made  her  sick.  A  bottle  of  black  ink  had  no 
deadlier  effect.  Finally,  she  cut  her  throat  with  a  knife,  but  not  fatally, 
though  she  made  a  deep  and  dangerous  gash." 

3  Like  the  Roman  citizen's  right  of  appeal  to  Caesar,  there 
was,  according  to  some  authorities,  a  supreme  right  of  appeal 
to  Harold  of  Normandy.    It  was  invoked  by  crying  "  Haro ! 
Haro!  Haro!"    In  a  modified  form,  the  legal  tradition  still 
survives,  I  believe,  in  some  of  the  Channel  Islands. 

4  Read  at  the  farewell  dinner  to  Salvini,  New- York,  April 
26th,  1883. 

5  The  sun  of  Tubby  Hook  has  set. 
>T  is  INWOOD  now  —  and  folks  forget. 

6  Written  for  Franklin  Public  School,  Labor  Day,  1894. 
229 


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Poems. 


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